It Was
by Mel like Mellow
Summary: Bulma/Vegeta. They weren't always in love; maybe they never were. Canonical approach to how their relationship might have gone. Set between the Cell Games and Buu Saga.
1. Not yet

"I can't even get five minutes of peace."

Bulma smirked to herself, her head ducked so that her hair veiled her face. As quietly as possible, she slid the balcony door closed until it made a final _click_. When she turned back to face him, she noticed that he had not budged from his place against the railing.

_Ever the still statue_, she mused to herself, her head canting to view him from a new angle. Fascinated by his presence, Bulma witnessed the sunset play upon his strict features; the furrowed brow and perpetual scowl casting stark shadows across his visage.

"Are you just going to stand there like an idiot, onna?" He growled again, low and deep, and Bulma noted with satisfaction his dark eyes darting to catch her movements toward him. Her hands reached out to the railing before she drew up beside him – that is, as close as Vegeta would allow her.

Deftly she curled her fingers about the rail and she leaned forward, pressing her stomach against the metal. Bulma inhaled, drawing in the sweet scent of her mother's gardens below, and she shut her eyes against the setting sunlight. Upon popping a single blue orb open, she found Vegeta gazing, unmoved, into the distance. He didn't seem focused on any particular point; whatever it was he was looking at was well beyond her realm of vision.

"Welcome home, at least," she offered sardonically, knowing full and well he would not appreciate the sentiment.

Bulma was not disappointed in his clenching of teeth and the sharp '_tch!_' he used to reject her pleasantries. "Don't be stupid," he spat aggressively, arms wrapped firmly above his chest. He seemed to tighten them unconsciously. "I will be gone again by daybreak."

"Aw, don't tell me you didn't miss this," she teased with a lilt as she tilted her head back to let her blue locks tip away from her shoulders. She half-smiled upon his quick glance, noticing that specific glower her usually saved for her. His silence answered her well enough, and Bulma simply sighed and bowed further over the rail. "Whatever," she dismissed him. "Can't say that I blame you. I'm happy to get away from Trunks right now, if only for handful of seconds. He can be so loud and fussy sometimes!"

"Can't imagine where he inherited that," Vegeta sneered.

The pinch to the patch above his elbow did little to deter the smirk on his lips. The aqua haired woman snorted disdainfully as she turned away from him once more, her glare settled firmly on her family's lot stretched out before them. "Oh, what would you even know?"

"There is likely little difference between the squalling brat and his future counterpart," Vegeta supplied with a hint of irritation, his thick eyebrows knitting tight together as he recounted the time together with the young man in the Room of Spirit and Time.

"Don't call my son a brat," Bulma reprimanded him sharply as her digits fastened harder over the metal bar beneath her hands. "Just because he doesn't like you—"

Onyx eyes flew heavenwards, before soaring back over the landscape of Capsule Corporation. "Like I give a shit," he bit out with a pointed look thrown Bulma's way. "As though I need another one, attached to my hip as though to a mother's apron strings. It's disgusting."

It took her a moment to riddle that one out – good God, her brain had been fried over the last handful of days – but inevitably she met Vegeta's opinion with a thin smile, somewhere between agreement and reproach. "He is a bit clingy, ne?" She permitted and was rewarded by the minute tilt of his lips in appreciation of her response. "But you can't blame him, Vegeta," Bulma continued on an exhale, her torso dropping so that she may lay her head against her folded arms upon the railing. "He never had a father in his future. You were killed before he could even remember your face."

Her mind whirled over the possibilities of Trunks' future occurring within her own timeline, and Bulma felt the familiar flash of fear tangle in her stomach. Tightening her hold on reality, as well as the rail of the balcony, she let her teal eyes focus intently on the sparring figures on the lawn as her vision blurred with the promise of tears. "He just wants to know you, even as you are now – as though that would make a difference – and he—"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Vegeta's inquiry had come so abruptly, Bulma faltered on her words. Instantly, she met his speculative gaze, and her cheeks flooded with color. She didn't know why she suddenly felt embarrassed – what was it that she had even said, now? "I'm just trying to explain to you, is all. Don't treat him so harshly."

The Saiyan's dark eyes swooped over her, the angled curve of her body as she leant beside him. His mouth turned southward as his gaze darted back to the horizon. The response to her plea was as insignificant as it seemed her request was to him, and Bulma groaned aloud in exasperation.

"Fine," she began to draw up from the bar, one arm dropping away as she moved. "As though it makes a difference," Bulma repeated once more, already beginning to twirl away, "I just wanted to say hello—"

Her sea foam locks had barely finished falling before his warm, hard fingers encircled her wrist. Bulma froze mid-movement as she felt his grip, her eyes scanning up his arm until they reached his face. His features, set in such an odd determination, seemed vaguely familiar to Bulma. It wasn't until she saw the reflection of her own azure coloring in his eyes that she recognized his purpose for halting her.

"No," she ordered, her eyes bright and wide with apprehension, as he began to tug her toward him, "no, no, no…"

Her rebuffs died against his lips as they pressed down upon her own. Bulma remembered them as being far less rough, even as she conceded to the press of his tongue. She opened her mouth to him, sighing into the space between as he slipped in. It amazed her that despite the passing of time, how almost common this seemed. The twisting of his hand on her arm led her baby-stepping into him.

With expertise, he lifted a hand to angle her head advantageously. Vegeta allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of her, of her mouth, and of her closeness. He guiltlessly reveled in the velvet push of her tongue against his, in the subtle shift of her hips to accommodate him against her. It was shameless of him to think so, but the familiarity of this situation was gradually becoming enticing to him…

Her free hand lifted and fell against his abdomen, her fingers splaying over the muscles that lay beneath his shirt. Upon this furthered intimate contact, Vegeta broke away from her mouth with an agitated rumble. Parting from him with a soft gasp, Bulma found her hooded gaze unable to pull up to his face. Instead, her eyes lingered at his fingers around seemingly fragile wrist.

Apparently taking similar notice of their final physical connection, Vegeta gruffly thrust her back from him, his hand leaping away from her arm as though burned. When her blue eyes flashed upward, he glared out upon the yard, half-turning away from her intrusive staring.

Bulma recognized the tell-tale signs. Stiff jaw. Tight shoulders. Distrustful eyes. As Vegeta distanced himself from her, she found herself lacking the urgency to bring him back that she may have previously possessed. In point of fact, she realized with a twinge of annoyance, there seemed to be more of a necessity for separation.

"There'll be some capsules on the table for you and Trunks to take in the morning." Surprisingly, at least to Vegeta, her voice came out solid and sure. _Finality_, he thought to himself without taking her in. He felt her move away from him – toward the doors, and he heard them slide open and she paused.

"I know you don't like to hear it, but … do take care, will you, Vegeta?"

Her request was, as expected, met with nothing in response. Heavily, her chest sank, and Bulma watched him turn away quietly to face the umber horizon once again. An inexplicable sadness coursed thoroughly into her veins, seeming to weigh her down as she observed him. Would this be the last time she ever saw him? _It would be a classic final visual_, she thought to herself, _albeit unfulfilling._

As quietly as she had entered, Bulma slipped though the sliding doors. Vegeta would not move again until the assuring _click_ had sounded, and the padding of her feet had led her into the heart of the home and certainly away from him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Set during the 9 days just before the Cell Games begin.

Been watching the Cell Games on my awesome Dragonball Z DVDs and this idea fluttered into my head. Had to get it out somehow, so here we are! Just a one-shot, though something tells me I maaaaaaay add future installments - I'm thinking, maybe moments throughout Bulma and Vegeta's romance. Who knows.

Please review, let me know what you think! :D :D


	2. Momentum

Trunks was squalling in the basinet beside her as Bulma flicked madly through each channel. There was nothing but static on almost all stations, some capturing the last flickering images of her comrades and that threatening, ungodly beast.

"Can't you … y'know, make it stop?" Oolong grumbled as he raised himself up off the floor to peer into the contents of the capsulable basinet. Bulma's hand quickly obscured his vision as her palm jammed forward, pie-facing him into the floor and away from her child.

"Leave him alone! He's very upset right now," Bulma scolded the shapeshifter as she rose from her place by the table. "All of his friends, his father – even he, himself! – are out there right now! How would _you_ do under those circumstances, Oolong?"

Despite the decibel and aggressiveness of her voice, Bulma's facial expression betrayed her as she leant over her fitful son. Gently, she rocked the basinet, her frown deepening as the wails from her son struck her as particularly guttural. Lifting him into her arms, she flashed an apologetic smile to Muten Roshi – who merely nodded in acknowledgement of her plight – before she moved wordlessly toward the entrance of the Kame House.

The breeze was warm outside as it billowed about the large leaves of the lone palm tree. Heavily, Bulma sighed and hefted her son against her chest, and her arms tightened protectively about the infant. His sobs were muffled into her bosom as she bounced him cajolingly, all the while her feet carrying her down the steps of the porch.

Her toes touched the sand sooner than she anticipated, startling her. Bulma looked down to find her red toenails obscured by the white grains as she dug her digits deeper into the ground. It was comforting, to feel planted there and safe. A glance down at her quieting child brought a bittersweet smile to her lips.

"You think so too, ne, Trunks-chan?"

The reprieve was short-lived, however, as a sharp crack of thunder rumbled violently and wicked bolts illuminated the horizon. Bulma jerked her head up at the brash sound and found the vibrant hues glimmering in the distance and reflected in the churning waters spread out before her. Below her, she felt the beginnings of tremors, as the tiny bits of sand tickled over her bare feet. She wiggled her toes, unearthing them, while her arm resumed its earlier motions to abate Trunks' fresh cries. Whimpering all the while, Trunks attempted to bury himself against his mother's breast.

"I know, I know," she soothed him, a new tremble touching her own voice. "I don't feel good about it either, Trunks-chan. But there's nothing we can do for them now."

Her son was seemingly unsatisfied, his fussing into her shirt growing exponentially. Bulma exhaled weakly and rerouted her gaze to fall upon the horizon once more. The fantastic shades of golden and blue fought valiantly against the menacing push of the storm clouds overhead, yet it seemed to no avail.

"It's overwhelming," she spoke to no one in particular. She felt as though she were talking to the wind as it picked up its pace, tossing her sea-foam locks about her shoulders. "It's more than we expected, isn't it?" A frown creased between her eyebrows, and Bulma bit at the inside of her lip to prevent the sting at lingered at the corners of her eyes. "Did we even do enough?"

She thought of her friends who were out there, beyond her point of vision and beyond safety. How impossible it seemed that they may return unscathed. Her heart felt as though it were lodged in her throat, unmoving as her gullet constricted. If the worst happened, none of them could be returned to Earth.

The Dragonballs could not save them this time; it chilled her to the bone to think of it. An odd smile quirked at her mouth as Bulma remembered the orange orbs that led her into this tumultuous lifestyle. If she had never heard of them, if she had never sought them out, would she be standing here at the edge of the sea, wondering if she'd see tomorrow?

Her heartstrings pulled taught and Bulma ducked her head to stifle a snivel.

Another strike of lightening tore against the sky, and she envisioned Vegeta. His endless training, his rigorous schedule. How many times did he nearly kill himself? The effort she and her father poured into aiding him. Oh, what they endured for that brute, and for what? To find that it might all be for naught?

"How infuriated does that make you out there? Knowing that now?" Bulma asked aloud, her voice carrying a mocking cadence, as she hoped her question might be carried out by the wind.

By now, the warm ball cradled in her arms had quelled its crying and shaking, and Bulma looked down to find Trunks nestled against her, fast asleep. A ghost of a grin slid over her features. "Even when facing our planet's demise, you have better things to do," she murmured into his tuft of lavender hair, her lips planting a loving kiss at his forehead as he slumbered.

Pulling her face away, Bulma observed her sleeping infant, and the curve of her mouth swayed slightly. "You're so much like him, it appalls me sometimes," she whispered, before she stole another glance out to sea.

The colors of the atmosphere had shifted and the grey-blue of the sky was melting into reddish gold. It unsettled her, and Bulma pulled her son closer into her.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This one's obviously set DURING the actual Cell Games.

I chose to write from Bulma's POV because she comes more naturally to me than Vegeta. That's not to say I won't do a Vegeta-centric shot, though! Fear not! I just kinda wanted to explore what she might be thinking and feeling during that period of time. This piece was inspired by Snow Patrols "The Lightening Strike" -- it might help the flow of it if you listen to it while reading!


	3. Who

"Bulma-chaaaan! They're home! They're home!!"

The pitch with which her mother squealed had Bulma tearing from the labs as fast as her pumps would allow. Heart racing and mind whirling, she knew without question to whom Bunny was referring.

Haphazardly, she stumbled into the foyer, her hands bolting outward to grasp on to the corner for leverage upon her quick turn. Tears were already blurring her eyesight as she stared forward into the entry way of their home, the single figure buffer and taller than the one she had first envisioned upon her mother's cry.

"Trunks," Bulma breathed shakily, a stray droplet falling from her lashline. "You're—oh god—" She stuttered on her words as she strode forward and swung her arms about his shoulders. He was a good foot or so taller than she, but Bulma nevertheless stretched herself up on her tip-toes to put her full-weight against him.

Awkwardly, but still lovingly, her son enfolded her, tugging her closer to his chest as he felt her shake with tears. "I'm okay, okaasan," he assured her, his calming voice whispered into her thick blue bob. "We're okay."

Bulma drew away from him, her arms sliding just slightly to allow her room to lean back from him. Silently, save a few stray sniffles, she inspected Trunks from head to toe, her hands passing over the hole at the front of his armor. "What happened here?" She queried abruptly, a flashing of her azure eyes startling him back a couple steps. "Did you get hurt?"

"Nothing Dende couldn't fix," he lied, instantly hating the tug on his vocal chords. "I promise you, everyone's okay, okaasan."

At once, she knew it wasn't true; he had seemed certain at first, and then something occurred to him, the notion skirting over his face. Bulma's heart beat thunderously against her chest as her breath caught in the middle of her throat and horror pulled at her features.

Familiar faces flickered in the dim of her brain, one in particular clearer than the rest. _Oh, no, no…_

"W-Who…?"

The word alone held all the fear and anxiety Trunks was sure his mother had carried throughout the entire Cell ordeal. His insides writhing with every moment, he struggled to find the strength necessary to convey to his mother what she undoubtedly did not foresee.

"Okaasan—"

"Where's Vegeta?" Bulma's query came out quickly, tangled and loud, a knot of unease and concern that froze the room. "I-Is he—?" Bunny and her husband exchanged uncertain glances behind their daughter, and Dr. Briefs put his arm comfortingly around his wife as he sensed her beginning to quake beside him.

"No, no! Otousan is fine," Trunks rushed to prevent further miscommunication, already seeing the brimming pools in his mother's eyes. "It's not him. It's…" He trailed off as he heard his mother's breath hitch suddenly, and he ducked his gaze toward the floor.

"Son-kun?"

She spoke his name in such a tiny voice – one would have to strain to hear it. Trunks glanced upward, noticing his mother's trembling, and his head felt heavy as he nodded in affirmation.

The subsequent howl of sorrow that ripped itself from Bulma's chest pricked even Vegeta's ears as he settled and listened to her anguish with gritted teeth from atop the roof of Capsule Corporation.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Another little bit I thought of earlier today. This comes AFTER the Cell battle.

I was listening to the Dragonball Kai ending song ("Yeah! Break! Care! Break!") and there's a part in the actual video with Goku, where the lyrics translate to something like: "'Cause I was born to save the world." And there's this epic picture of Goku standing all alone. And it made me sad, especially for all his friends. :(

Also, someone mentioned that my chapters are short ... which they are. Typically, I don't like to write HUGE major things. I'm much more of a single scene kind of gal, and the chapters for this particular fic are more like stand-alones. Does that make sense? I hope it does... ^^;;


	4. Hanabi

They were dropping the nuclear missile. Bulma and her family had five seconds to dive into the bomb shelter before—

_BOOM!_

With a start, Bulma snapped awake, her body going rigid as her eyes flew open. Her chest was heaving, her limbs sprawled every which way, as the coverlets bunched and tangled around her knees. She worked to slow her breathing, her eyes blinking furiously to rid themselves of the terrible nightmare.

A sudden dim, yellow glow behind her curtains caught her eye.

In her sleep addled brain, Bulma wondered groggily if it really was the end of the world. And, of course, realization that she was in her room, safe in her house, far from the apocalypse made her sniff in derision at her own foolishness.

Another, brighter hue warmed the window panes, and Bulma turned her head atop the pillow to watch it illuminate her room and fade away. Her mouth tugged downward in a frown as she made the effort to lift herself up out of bed, grunting and groaning in discomfort as her body screamed at her for leaving the warmth it had provided her.

The tremors of the earth were just beginning to settle when her toes touched the cold tile of the kitchen floor. Outside, there was a lightshow of sorts, as furious golden and blue tones waged a miniature battle on her lawn. Bulma pursed her lips and approached the sliding doors that led to the backyard, her palms pressing flat against the panes. Briefly, she rested her forehead against the doors as well, the chill soothing her weary mind.

Easy to find was the source of her wake-up call and their personal fireworks display.

With a sneer, Bulma's fingers curled about the doors' handles and slid them apart, her legs carrying her into the night. The air was still and sticky, and Bulma instantly regretted her decision to come rally against the Saiyajin no Ouji, particularly for doing so in her bedclothes. Quickly, her hands worked to bundle up her frazzled bob, and she noted with some satisfaction that Vegeta had apparently recognized her approach.

He was unmoving, stuck in the middle of a battle stance, his left arm outstretched and the right pulled in close to his body. Both fists clenched and unclenched.

She let her eyes wander over him lazily, despite knowing he was very much aware of her presence by now. His lycra training shorts and glistening chest were a reward in their own right; Bulma's earlier regret was beginning to subside and give way to familiar appreciation.

"What do you want, onna?"

However, the snarl in his voice immediately quelled any flicker she may have felt, replacing it instantly with acid. Bulma bared her teeth in agitation, spitting venomously, "Are you fucking insane, Vegeta? What the hell are you doing out here at this hour, blowing up my mother's gardens?"

Vegeta finally dropped his pose and turned to face her, disgust evident on his face as he eyeballed the woman. Her hair unkempt, the woman was clad in that silly, silky overcoat she called a "robe" and little else underneath. It never ceased to amaze him how vulgar and careless the little harpy could be. Vegeta's upper lip curled and he turned his face away from the sight of her. "I am training. Now, leave me alone."

Much to Bulma's displeasure, he began to twist away from her, and a new fury rumbled inside her. "What could you possibly be training for?" She questioned him in mixed exasperation and irritation. "It's over, Vegeta, remember?"

He did not seem to take kindly to such a reminder. Vegeta stopped abruptly in his march across the lawn, his head inching around to glare at Bulma from over his shoulder. "You're an even bigger idiot than I thought, if you think it's ever over, onna," he growled. "Just because Cell has been defeated doesn't mean there won't be other threats."

Perhaps a mere seven paces away from her, Vegeta moved to face her once again, his features as stony as they had ever been. Bulma's stomach flip-flopped over the notion that the end had not been completely averted. But in truth, the destruction of humankind at someone else's hand had not been what she initially meant.

Though what _had_ she meant, then?

The Saiyan seemed to catch on that she had been reconsidering her query and his response, and his brows tightened inward. "Did you have something to say?"

"I just—" Bulma looked up at him and hesitated. He looked genuinely confused and put-off by her reassessing the route of their conversation. All that time, during those fateful three years, she had understood well enough that all his efforts weren't specifically for the androids; Vegeta's ridiculous and somewhat masochistic training had truly been intended for something else.

For _someone_ else.

As his face swam before her, Bulma felt the tears from earlier that day rising at the back of her eyes and throat, and she wrenched her face away. When she tilted her face back to him, Vegeta was startled to find a more somber look upon her visage – _how quickly this woman could change her demeanor._

"I just mean, it's, like … three in the morning, Vegeta," Bulma offered thickly as her hands ducked into the pockets of her bathrobe. Her fingers began to curl and uncurl anxiously. "A little consideration for others is really too much to ask? Trunks is a light sleeper—"

"That insufferable urchin's leaving tomorrow—"

Bulma exhaled sharply and reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I meant the baby, Vegeta!"

"So did I."

Bright blue eyes widened in surprise as her rage resurfaced, albeit the latter quickly faded upon witnessing the smirk threatening to ease up on Vegeta's typical scowl. Dropping her hand away from her face, Bulma allowed him a twisted smile. To his credit, he was making a joke – a rarity, at best. "You're very funny," she deadpanned, the half-grin still writ upon her features. Her head canted to the side and Bulma allowed herself another opportunity to, for the lack of a better word, ogle him. "Really, Vegeta. You should just come inside. It's late."

He doubted that she had intended him to, but Vegeta recognized quickly her inspection of him, and his suggestive lift of his eyebrows had Bulma's aquamarine eyes darting to the sky as her cheeks flushed magenta under the swath of night. His mind warred with itself over her unintentional offer; was it worth it? Did he even want that?

A snort pulled itself through his nostrils and what little good nature Bulma had drawn out of him receded at once.

_Déjà vu._ Bulma sighed to herself_. Like a thousand times before_.

Arms folding up across his massive chest, Vegeta pivoted on his bare heel, his feet crunching the grass he began again towards the massive gravity machine stationed across the lawn. "Do not presume to tell me what to do," he reprimanded over his shoulder, barely offering the woman a second glance. "Get lost, onna."

She watched after him silently, a new ache suddenly pulling at her chest as she turned back into the home.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Set the night before Mirai Trunks heads back to the future.

It always struck me as interesting, what Bulma said when everyone found out she and Vegeta had a baby together, just before the androids arrived. Everyone was asking where he was and she pretty much was like, "Uh, no idea. I don't live with that guy." We all know it doesn't mean that he physically resides elsewhere -- it just means that he and Bulma just didn't have that kind of relationship.

So I figured that the first time they see each other after the Cell Games, neither would want to make it a big baloo - they'd probably just slip right back into banter and get back to annoying one another. ;)


	5. Signal

"He was such a nice boy, wasn't he, dear?" Bunny sprightly inquired of her husband, who merely nodded and mumbled from behind his moustache. The blonde turned toward her daughter, who seemed quite engaged in separating the food upon her plate. A frown drew over Bunny's face. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"Wha--?" Bulma glanced up, startled by the invasion unto her own little world. "No, nothing's wrong, mama."

Knowingly, Bunny began to grin and she innocently tilted her head at her daughter. "Mmm, I know what it is," she sing-songed, her beam threatening to illuminate the room. "You miss Vegeta-chan, isn't that right?"

Torn between annoyance and amusement, Bulma settled on a mute smile, her lips pulled tight in a line as she went back to pushing her mashed potatoes around with her fork. "Don't be absurd, mama," the marine woman chided her mother with a ghost of a snicker, finally piercing a branch of broccoli and lifting it to her mouth. "If anything, I miss Trunks."

"The baby?" Dr. Briefs lifted his nose out from the schematics he had spread out around his plate, a furrowed brow of confusion offered between his daughter and the high chair beside her. "What? Why?"

"No, no!" Bunny fussed at her husband and waved a dismissive napkin his way. "She means the boy who left today! Sweetie, sometimes I don't know where you're at in there!"

Blankly, Bulma stared between her parents, the urge to mock her mother subdued by the sorrow from the day's events. She really did miss the older version of her son – she supposed it was an instinctive attachment to him that was making her heart throb so painfully. Beside her, her own edition of Trunks was snoozing in his high chair, his face partially hidden underneath his dinner.

Her mother's hmmming and haaaing regained her focus, and Bulma looked quizzically upon her mother who was gazing up at the ceiling with a peculiar expression on her face. "I wonder where he is. He hasn't even come down for dinner! I announced dinner time on the intercoms…" the woman trailed off, an uncharacteristic pensiveness taking over her normally perky features. Instantly, she brightened, her utter glee resuming. "Oohh, I know! I'll just make him a plate and bring it up to Vegeta-chan! He would be so grateful—"

"Mama, no! Don't do that bully any favors," Bulma groaned in renewed frustration. Her mother had been all atwitter over Vegeta since his return to Capsule Corporation had been made aware to all. While Vegeta was obviously ready to snap the woman's neck on sight, it had taken Trunks' departure and a handful of hours to drain Bulma of the patience necessary to deal with her mother's coddling. "I'll make him a plate and bring it up to that jerk."

Clucking her tongue at Bulma as rose from the dinner table, Bunny shook her head after her daughter. "You shouldn't treat him like that, Bulma-chan! After all, Vegeta-chan did help save the world."

"Vegeta didn't do anything," Bulma muttered darkly to herself above the stove, an empty plate now in hand. She began to load it up with the delicacies the Capsule Corporation chefs had prepared for the evening, her own head beginning to move in disbelief at herself. It wasn't true – Vegeta had done something, hadn't he? She remembered Trunks practically gushing to her, his eyes bright and excited, with what Yamucha had told him; how Vegeta allegedly went ballistic when Cell had greatly wounded Trunks on the battlefield.

Personally, she didn't believe it. That certainly wasn't the Vegeta she knew, or thought she knew. Was he even capable of exhibiting such behavior? Certainly, she didn't want to get Trunks' hopes up, so she played along - but the nagging doubt still resided in the back of her mind.

Sighing, Bulma twirled from the stove and smiled fadingly toward her mother, who was watching her daughter expectantly - more than likely ensuring Bulma had estimated an accurate portion for their guest. "I'll go run this up to him," she gestured toward the ceiling with the plate. "But could you clean up Trunks-chan and get him to bed for me, mama?" Her request came with a tiny nod toward her dozing son, and Bunny all but lit up at the thought.

"Of course I can! When would I ever NOT wanna be around this cutie-pie! Trunks-chan, you're just toooo adorable…"

The sounds of her mother's baby-talk died as soon as Bulma made it out of the dining wing. She couldn't help but send her gaze heavenwards; it was a mistake to have allowed herself to suffer through family dinner. Her heart simply hadn't been in it and half the time Bulma's mind had been empty or elsewhere. Balancing the plate with both hands (the food was threatening to fall over the edges, already there was cake dashing across her knuckles) Bulma ascended the staircase that led into Vegeta's wing of the compound.

_Vegeta's wing._ She smirked to herself at the very thought. After all that time away from Capsule Corporation, she had doubted that he'd ever really return. And yet he had. For whatever reason, he had come back. Were Bulma a gambling woman, she'd bet half her estate it was simply because he knew that he _could_.

And that, quite frankly, irritated her a little bit.

The knuckles not caked in Vegeta's dinner rapped sharply at the door, and she paused to wait for allowance into the room. When no response came, Bulma exhaled exaggeratedly and, devoid of second thoughts, she pressed the button on the wall to her left, and the door slid apart for her. Granting herself entry, Bulma hesitated just inside the bedroom, taking in what was, for all intents and purposes, Vegeta's bedroom.

She had probably only been within it a handful of times – only one memory was particularly vivid, Bulma blushed at the recollection – and it struck her as somewhat disheartening that he still had not bothered to decorate it for himself.

"I don't remember telling you to enter, onna."

Either she had become immune to his stealth, or he was losing his touch. Bulma smirked, her irises flitting into the corners to catch him moving out of the bathroom. Shamelessly, she searched his body, her gaze briefly settling over the towel clutched low around his hips. "It's my house, Vegeta. I can go wherever I please," she retorted with a quick glance back to his face.

Vegeta was neither pleased nor amused in the least. A sudden urge to placate him blossomed in Bulma's stomach, and her smirk softened into a half-smile as she proffered the plate load of delectables to him. "Here. Dinner. Mama was worried Vegeta_-chan _would forget to eat."

"That woman's a fucking idiot," he snarled, his nose wrinkling up as he inspected the food being offered to him.

Noting the picky look edging into his eyes, Bulma glowered deeply upon him. "Beggars can't be choosers, Vegeta," she snapped as her arms outstretched ever further with the plate. "Now, take it! My arms are tired! This shit weighs a ton."

Snorting in aggravation, Vegeta snatched the plate from her with one hand, though it appeared that something caught his eye. Abruptly his fingers coiled around her wrist and with a jerking motion, her hand was presented before him. Bulma gasped at the intrusion, attempting to wrench herself away from his iron grip. "What the hell are you doing, Vegeta?!"

The explanation did not come with words. Quickly and quietly, Vegeta took her index and middle fingers into his mouth, and Bulma's knees began to quake beneath her. He cleaned her fingers languidly, ridding them of the confection dabbled over her knuckles; a keen eye kept upon her melting features all the while.

Bulma was morbidly fascinated with the movement of his mouth around her fingers, and that glinting look in his onyx eyes; everything that made her a sane and logical and rational being began to slip away – fast. As he released her digits, Bulma swooped in for herself, their mouths fusing instantly. It was far more intimate than she was sure either of them would prefer, but it would be nevertheless satisfying, at least for Bulma.

A dull clatter sounded somewhere in the real world as Vegeta maneuvered her almost violently down on to his bed, the woman's blue tresses gripped tight in his hands as her hands dared journey ever lower.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Set the day Mirai Trunks goes back to the future.

Decided to do something a little racy in the end, because let's face it, the whole of Vegeta and Bulma's relationship - whatever it turned out to be in the end - was rooted initially in sexual attraction. This chapter's a little more substantial than my others, 'cause it felt like it needed more of a "story" feel to it. Hope it doesn't seem out of place with the other chapters!

I want to thank everyone for their reviews, too! I didn't intend on this being an extensive endeavor, though now it's looking like it might be! I've already started working on two other chapters!


	6. Never Ever

The plump child was kneeling across from her, the two separated only by a stack of kiddy blocks and a tiny toy train. Propping himself up on his hands, Trunks struggled to push himself up on to his feet, his little legs shaking with the effort. "Come to mommy, Trunks-chan," Bulma cooed, her hands outstretched toward the toddler.

They had been practicing for a good couple days now. Trunks was quickly getting the hang of standing and walking without anything to hold him up. It delighted Bulma to see that familiar determined scowl on his chubby face, to watch his little fingers balling up as he stretched his arms outward for balance.

"That's a good boy…. Come on, sweetie…" she continued her encouragement as her fingers wiggled enticingly and invitingly. The toddler made a grunting sort of yelp as he righted himself, and Bulma hooted in congratulations for his feat.

From beyond the arch of the playroom, Vegeta stood and observed the unfolding events, as curiosity and disdain battled for rule of his mind. Every now and again, he would find himself unfortunately stumbling upon a similar scene: Bulma or her mother, coddling and cheering on the brat, looking like even bigger idiots than was typical, and the toddler making Vegeta, himself, feel unbelievable waves of embarrassment at his own son's ineptness.

How was it that Kakarotto and his mate's offspring was so exceptional, and yet his was… Vegeta rumbled to himself, his hands rolling into tight, trembling fists.

Another hurrah from the woman had his attention soaring into the playroom again as he witnessed the pudgy boy waddle proudly into his mother's waiting arms. As soon as he was within reach, Bulma scooped the child up and fell backward with a loud, gleeful laugh. Her arms stretched upward, lifting the child high into the air as she lay on the floor and gaped up at him. "You'll be able to fly one day, just like this, Trunks-chan," Bulma oh-so-certainly informed her son as he giggled and flapped his arms above her. "Vegeta will show you, and you'll learn how to fight and be _so_ big and strong—"

"Laughable," Vegeta muttered to himself with a roll of his eyes.

"—just like Vegeta," Bulma finished on a sigh as her arms lowered and settled the child atop her belly. The child smacked her stomach with flat palms, causing Bulma to cough sharply in surprise at the force, consequently drawing a smirk to the Saiyan's mouth. "Yeah, definitely like Vegeta," she cleared her throat with a grimace, her fingers taking up the child's tiny hands.

Vegeta snorted to himself. In no way, shape, or form was the child reminiscent to him. It was during moments such as these where he found himself nostalgic for the alternate, older version of his offspring. It was somewhat depressing for him to even consider, but at least that one was capable and, to some extent, a respectable heir to the Saiyajin throne.

The woman yawned greatly, bringing a scornful sneer to Vegeta's features, as the child climbed from atop her. Her fluttering lashes heralded sleep, and Bulma stretched indolently across the floor. With an interested tilt of his head, Vegeta allowed his dark eyes to rove over her recumbent figure. As that certain admiration began to sink in, his gaze raked lower still, finally settling upon the child who was merrily clapping the toy train and a wooden block together, apparently relishing in the noise.

It was a painful reminder of what could transpire when succumbing to the fruits of temptation.

Vegeta moved hurriedly away from the wall with a snarl, heading for the staircase to his right. An abrupt babbling startled him, and he looked across to find Trunks staring inquisitively up at him. It brought him to a halt as his hands hesitated over the stairway railing.

"…What the hell do _you_ want?" He hissed as his his gaze darkened and narrowed upon the child.

Soundlessly, Trunks blinked once, before returning to avidly clacking his toys together at his dozing mother's feet.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So now we begin the time between the end of the Cell Saga and the beginning of the Great Saiyaman arc.

I said I'd write a Vegeta focused chapter, so here's one. ;) Obviously, my Vegeta is not a happy family-man. I don't imagine he even really liked Trunks until he was a little bit older - if even then! I like the whole dynamic of this ridiculously dysfunctional family, so you might see more chapters involving the three of them later.

Also, if anyone's noticed or wondered, my chapter titles are named after songs by Ayumi Hamasaki. Just thought I'd throw that out there - if you've never heard her music and you like J-Pop, definitely check her out. She's beyond worth it.


	7. No way to say

_Hiccup!_

"Haaaaaaaaiiiii," Bulma drawled into the receiver, half-hanging over the edge of the couch. Her hair swung just above the floor as she had her knees draped across the backing, the skirt of her black evening gown lewdly jumbled around the tops of her thighs. With her cheeks tinged a bright pink and her aqua eyes bleary and glazed over, it was unquestionable that the heiress of Capsule Corporation had met and was well beyond her limit for that evening.

A slowly deflating balloon rolled by, and Bulma lazily swatted at it a moment too late. She giggled to herself, as bubbles popped behind her brain.

"Welllll," Bulma drew out the word with her tongue pressed sluggishly against her teeth, "I will – _hic!_ – see you next year, then, Yamuchaaa-chaaaan!" She offered spiritedly into the phone, before she pulled it away and her thumb searched for the 'end' button. A contented sigh filtered from her lungs as she pitched the portable phone to the floor, her eyelids drooping with the weight of her inebriation.

Vaguely, she recognized the spiky silhouette approaching her, and her smile spread slowly.

"You're more revolting than usual. Get up, onna."

"Vegetaaa-kun!" Bulma squealed upon fully registering his entrance, apparently unfazed to find herself staring at his kneecaps. Her gaze strained upward in its quest to meet his face, and she worked her lashes to try and clear the vision of him. "…Happy new year!" She cheered obnoxiously as a second thought, her hand jutting out and upward.

Taking the hint with a grunt of disdain, Vegeta accepted her open palm, tugging the woman upright. He watched, briefly entranced, as her legs slid languidly from over the couch and her pale appendages curled underneath her.

"Here, here," she slurred, wobbly stretching out for the bottle of sake on the coffee table, as well as one of the tiny cups. "Drink and be merry with me, it's the New Year," Bulma all but demanded, swiftly presenting the two objects to the Saiyan.

"No," was his blunt decline of her offer. With what modicum of gentleness he could muster, he pushed her wares away from his face.

Bulma sniffed and scowled, immediately pulling herself back from him. "Fine, be that way," she griped, already pouring herself another shot of sake. "More for me!"

"Tch," he scoffed as his nose wrinkled in disgust. "As though you need it."

His revulsion was met with little more than the quick flash of her tongue, before Bulma tipped back the beverage. He watched her swallow it easily, her throat moving around the liquid, and he observed with mild interest the serenity that spread out over her reddened, pretty features.

However, the unnecessary smacking of her lips thereafter effectively ruined what little desire may have coiled inside him in that moment. Suddenly aware of his lingering presence – and stare - Bulma drowsily blinked up at him, her mouth falling slack in her surprise. "Eh? You're still here? Nani? Nani yooo?"

His lack of a response brought a snide smile over Bulma's rosy lips, and she settled the bottle and glass carelessly upon the table before sinking deeper against the arm of the couch, her legs kicking outward. She peered up at him with a wicked look suddenly, catching him eyeing her lower limbs, and those typically wide, inquisitive blue orbs narrowed, almost feline in their pinkened state now. "You're still here," Bulma stated this time, somewhat bitingly around her lazy tongue. "Y'know, that's weird."

"Is it." He was curious to see where this would lead. Vegeta had been witness to many of the woman's drunken ramblings, particularly during her breakup with the weakling. They had always proved to be amusing.

"And Son-kun is_ not_," she enunciated each word as best she could, her voice falling almost effortlessly into that hostile tone. Vegeta resisted the urge to frown or show distaste in the turn of her observations, continuing to stand silently nonetheless, his arms folded across his chest. "It's not fair, you know," Bulma yielded with a quivering frown, her azure eyes slipping a bit to the left of Vegeta's face to intently study the wall beyond him.

"What a pity."

She was already tearing up – he could see the droplets glistening on her lashes as she fought courageously to prevent them from spilling. Yet one leaked out despite her best efforts, the lonely tear trailing down her cheek as she screwed up her face. "He's not here and … and he was just _so_ nice," Bulma's voice cracked on its way out, her words forlorn and her eyes downcast toward her outstretched legs. "He was the nicest guy I ever met," she continued sadly, those unbelievably large blue eyes reaching Vegeta's unsettled gaze.

God, he felt like he was wading in them. He could already feel the bile itching up his throat as he watched her crumble and wash away.

"You don't even care," she pointed out with a quick hitch to her voice. "But you don't know, either. He was so nice. Son-kun."

A ridiculous sniffle was drawn, and Bulma lifted the back of her hand to brush at the tip of her damp nose. Upon glancing back up to him, she found Vegeta unaffected and unmoved by her admission – and it seemed so wrong, for him to care so little. Bulma broke a bit inside; she could feel the little pieces chipping away as she half-sobbed, "A-and you're _so mean_! All of the time!"

Vegeta found himself off-guard. The tears and how candid she was being with him now – he didn't understand it. She was crying in front of him, and while he had seen her use tears as a weapon against Yamucha, never once had she allowed herself to appear so weak around _him_. It unnerved him; the sight and sound of her openly weeping, her disappointment in him and in his survival, it made his palms sweat and his muscles twitch.

Stuttering and (_god help him_) anxious, Vegeta rose his voice over her sniveling. "Shut up! Kakarotto's dead and gone! What good will this," he gestured with a scowl toward her quivering form, "do you_ or_ him now?"

Bulma snapped her head up to stare boldly into Vegeta's eyes, almost startling the Saiyan with the quickness of her movement. Unfettered by her own tears and the singular show of her weakness, she glowered and shook her head fiercely against his harsh words. Her mouth opened furiously, seemingly to say something of grand importance, but at once she closed her lips tightly together and leaned back into her corner of the couch – away from him - her gaze miserable and distant as she watched the clock tick itself to midnight and into another year.

* * *

**Author's Note: **It never works out the way it should in real life. The bad guys always survive and the good guys sacrifice themselves. When watching the Cell Games, it struck me as so sad that while Goku and Gohan acted immediately, all the others - including Vegeta - were more concerned for their own well being.

Anyway, so here's Bulma and Vegeta, addressing such an interesting issue. I couldn't imagine Bulma being so open to him without being intoxicated - nor imagine Vegeta actually bothering to listen if it were otherwise.


	8. Ourselves

"What's the matter with you?"

Bulma looked up from the stove, startled by her mother's sudden apparition. Bunny was nearly nose to nose with her. Rearing back from her mother, the blue tressed woman's features pulled into an annoyed expression. "Nothing's wrong! Why are you so nosy?"

"Because I know my Bulma-chan," Bunny told her daughter assuredly. "There's something wrong! Ever since you came back from the city with Chi Chi-san today, you've been grinning and avoiding everyone!"

A blush tinted Bulma's typically pale complexion, and she attempted to appear far more fascinated with the popcorn she had leveled over the burner. "You're imaging things, Mama." When the sounds of crackling corn kernels errupted, Bulma let a satisfied grin tip over her mouth. "There's nothing wrong, I promise."

Abruptly, Bunny sucked in a breath. Her daughter whipped her head around, finding herself unsettled by her mother's fatal stare. "I know that look," the blonde whispered harshly as a sparkle came into her slowly widening eyes. "That look … it can only mean one thing…"

"You don't know anything! Stop looking at me like that," came Bulma's hasty, shrill reprimand, her cheeks brightening further.

"You tell me now, Bulma-chan! Just when did you find out?"

Footfalls halted in the hall, unbeknownst to either woman.

"To think you would try to hide something like this from your mother," Bunny scolded, though giddiness was rife within her lilting voice. "You should know better!"

While the wires in Vegeta's brain crossed and tangled in an effort to riddle out what they could be prattling about, Bulma snorted outrageously. "You're riding a sugar high, Mama," she brushed off the older woman firmly as she sprinkled salt over her bucket of popcorn.

"Well, be that as it may," Bunny obliged with a smirk, "it's nothing compared to what _you've_ been riding."

Though he would usually find Bulma's scandalized shriek amusing, the disgraceful commentary courtesy of her mother had even Vegeta appalled by the older woman's level of perversion.

"Y-you can't say things like that, Mama!" Bulma's voice dropped now into a stuttering hush. "_Someone _could hear you!"

The emphasis was clear even to Vegeta, as he rolled his eyes at the woman's rare attempt at decency.

Bunny harrumphed, her heels clicking furiously after Bulma around the wide kitchen, tickling pinpricks of annoyance down Vegeta's spine. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear! I'm admittedly very envious—"

"Oh, god!" Bulma sounded nearly as nauseated as he felt by that admission. The Saiyan cringed as an unwanted visual danced around his mind, those massive eyebrows dipping together in his consternation. He spit ferociously at the floor in an effort to rid himself of the image, while Bulma continued in her haste to disconnect herself from this discussion. "Mama, just … stop. Please."

"Tell me how many weeks along you are! That's all I want to know!"

Vegeta's stomach somersaulted. Such a revelation immediately drained him of any urge to eat, and he pushed away from the wall. Hesitating, he battled with the will to confront the woman now and the ostensible need to run away from such an event. He bit down hard on his tongue at the notion of fleeing, tasting copper in his mouth as he pivoted down the hall, rapidly separating himself from the duo in the kitchen.

"I'm not pregnant! How could you think that?!" Bulma gasped, aghast, and her mouth dropped open. "You're insane!"

"A mother always knows," Bunny waved a finger under her daughter's nose and fluttered her lashes in a knowing wink. "You can't hide this, Bulma-chan. You're glowing! Look how pink you are!" Her mother touched the tips of her index fingers to both of Bulma's luminous cheeks, a grin spreading swiftly to reveal her pearly, perfect teeth. "_This_ is a mother's glow!"

Bulma bolted back from her mother and rounded the island, her bowl tucked under her arm, practically sprinting into the other room in an attempt to put as much distance as possible between she and Bunny's glittering laughter.

Half a romantic comedy later, that oh-so-familiar tingle was inching up Bulma's neck and her hand paused mid-reach for her popcorn. Barely turning her head, she easily spotted the shortish, muscular shadow playing against the wall. It was curious; Vegeta rarely invited himself into the family's entertainment room, as he seemed to find the idea of using electronics for amusement completely worthless. Hadn't he said as much? When he refrained from moving from the corner, Bulma twisted at the waist, turning to gaze expectantly at him from across the room.

She didn't have to observe him long to take in his awkward stance, his apprehension, his clenched fists, and his wary eyeing of her. Manicured eyebrows knit together at once. "Vegeta? Daijoubu desu ka…?" Her voice died out slowly as a twitch of aggravation passed over his features.

"It's nothing," he replied swiftly, a slow step advancing him toward the couch where she was curled. To her, the Saiyan's words sounded cut off - as though there were more he had intended to say. All the while, the flicker of his gaze, usually so calculating and slow, betrayed his words. He was darting his eyes all about her, his lips beginning to bend in his agitation.

Bulma sighed heavily against the promised storm and shook her head, casually tossing the yellow bits of popcorn into her mouth as she dislodged herself from the mounds of blankets wrapped around her to stand. "Then what are you--?"

"Is it true?" He interrupted on a growl as his fists tensed at his sides.

Bulma appeared nonplussed, and it only incited his rage further. "Is_ what_ true?" She snapped in mirrored irritation, her hands sliding into place upon the curve of her hips. Yet quick eyes and keen senses worked on her behalf, and Bulma instantly picked up on his disconcerted state, the turning of his balled hands. She dropped her arms non-confrontationally to her sides and attempted to soften into polite curiousity instead. "Vegeta, you're acting really—"

Vegeta's head jerked in the direction of the kitchen as he bit out over her, "I heard you and that idiot woman babbling earlier."

It seemed that was all he could muster. The constriction of his throat around whatever was to follow was evident even to Bulma as she inhaled sharply, her hands clapping over her mouth in horror. "N-no!" She cried out a moment later, both palms whipping up to wave vehemently at Vegeta as he shifted nearer to the sofa. "God, no! There's _no_ way that's happening again, Vegeta. _That_," she breathed out shakily as she deposited herself down on the couch again, "is something you can bet on."

Waves of relief rolled through his chest at her certainty and her fluster. Vegeta allowed himself a slow exhale, the tension at once rippling out of his muscles as his terror abated. Yet anger suddenly sparked anew within his mind as he rallied against himself for his absurdity; how could he allow himself to be spun so tight as to fear, of all things, further procreation? And her assurance that it 'wouldn't happen again?' It disgusted him and annoyed him to the core, and he gritted his teeth against the flash of rage. "The fuck were you talking about, then?"

His aggression ripped under Bulma's skin. "The fuck were you_ listening_ for, then?" She retorted furiously, her azure eyes afire. "Are you really _that_ bored? Gotta get your kicks eavesdropping on me and my _mother_?" With a great guffaw at his stupefied stare, Bulma turned to face him fully and she propped both arms over the back of the couch as she dipped her chest and leaned toward him.

Very much aware of his ever-infuriated glower (she could easily make out the glints of red in his irises) Bulma mock-whispered, "Chi Chi's pregnant again. But shhh," her delicate finger pressed to her lips and she winked impishly. "It's a secret!"

At her insolence, he snarled in protest, and she twisted halfway from him with an abhorrent sniff. "Why are you so mad?! I just told you, it's not me!" A thought occurred to the woman then, and Bulma smiled vaguely toward the ceiling. "It's really an interesting turn of things, isn't it? I mean, Trunks-chan can have a playmate, and--"

"That's it! This is done, onna!" Vegeta barked loudly, brandishing a threatening forefinger toward her as he took another step, those vicious eyes narrowing upon her inquisitive features. "You stay the hell out of my bed, do you understand me?"

A tinkling laugh fell out of Bulma's mouth as she tipped back and fell, stretched out on the couch. Her arm came up to sling over her eyes as a means to mask her mirth, albeit her smirk unhidden. "Yeah, okay, Vegeta," she giggled spitefully, his presence becoming palpable as he towered over her. Bulma moved her arm to peek a blue orb out from under her elbow. "I'll try to contain myself. Somehow."

He took her in scornfully, his upper lip curling back in apparent loathing, before he spun away from the couch. Yet he paused at the door when he heard her shift behind him. Bulma smiled to herself, not bothering to lift up from the cushions as she bid him sweetly, "I'll see you later, Vegeta-_kun_."

* * *

**Author's Note: **A cute scenario I thought of the other day. Thinking of Vegeta lowering himself to eavesdrop on the likes of Bulma and Bunny makes me giggle. The Bad Man can't fight anyone or anything, so this is how he acts out. ;P Or something. I also just like writing Bulma and Bunny - they're so cute together, awww!


	9. About you

The stars were finally fading behind her eyes as she heaved against his chest. The space between them felt sticky with sweat and heat, and she lay above him, her heavy head nestled in the dip of his shoulder. His breaths were slowing now and she smiled placidly as she made out his heart beating furiously in its cage beneath her.

She imagined today must've been a good day for him. He had little complaint throughout the afternoon – she actually couldn't remember talking to him much that day - and he had come to her room that night without a scowl or the typical frown and, better yet, without that determination to violently dominate that came attached to his bottled fury.

No, Vegeta had not sought her as an outlet for his anger. It stirred something in her belly when she suddenly considered that he may be finding it comfortable here, at last.

Tipping her face up, she rested her chin on the arc of his shoulder blade. His face was set, his eyes shut against the world as he drew in slow, calming breaths. Bulma dared not smile when looking upon him – it always seemed to make him edgy or anxious when he caught her looking (and he always caught her) and god forbid she ruin such a perfectly peaceful moment, for either of them. In this rare instant, she greedily took in his resting features, and her muscles trembled as her lips began to slide apart in open appreciation.

Good god, but he was a gorgeous man.

Undoubtedly feeling the shift in the air of the room, Vegeta cracked an eye open to find himself under the woman's careful inspection. Those infinitely blue eyes were swooping over his neck and collar, her fingers unconsciously splaying out over his chest as if to gain better leverage in her examination of him. Her fascination was simultaneously amusing and irritating; he knew he should shake her off with some brusque movement and gruff statement, and yet her delicate brow and her parted lips were engaging and encouraging him in his own silent assessment of the woman spread out over him.

He felt her knees shift around his hips and her eyes glided up to his face, only to find him staring back in patient interest. Bulma blushed a brilliant fuchsia, her hand smacking reprovingly over his pec. "You were staring!" She hissed, obviously embarrassed to have been caught. His smirk caught her off-guard, as well as his hands as they curved over her hips and pushed, moving her into a sitting position astride him.

"You should not be reprimanding me, onna," Vegeta warned her with a gradually arched eyebrow. His shoulders shrugged underneath her hands as she propped herself up over him. "Not that your admiration of me is unwarranted, but—"

Bulma gasped on an airy laugh, amused with his mild (if not playful?) narcissism. "My, my, Vegeta. You're certainly full of yourself, aren't you?"

"That makes two of us then, doesn't it?"

The woman screwed up her face in disgust at his suggestive taunt and she dropped her body to the right of him, falling beside him on the great mattress as her legs twisted about his own. Rising from the bed, Vegeta detached himself from their tangled lower limbs, and he padded wordlessly across to the bathroom. Bulma remained stretched out atop the crumpled blankets and sheets, her gaze wandering over the mundane items that littered her room. The water began to sound from the faucet and she allowed herself to be lulled by the noise.

Vegeta tilted his head to the side as he heard her abrupt gasp, and she called his name. The rustling of sheets signaled she had unwound herself from the bedding, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation for what was to come. At once, she appeared in the mirror, and Vegeta leveled an annoyed glare at her reflected visage. "What is it now?"

"I just remembered, tomorrow is Gohan-chan's birthday party," she began, trying valiantly to ignore the Saiyan's rising displeasure. "I thought it might be nice if—"

"—If you are suggesting—"

"—You go with Trunks-chan and I," Bulma finished over him with a half-grin. "C'mon, Vegeta. You haven't seen any of those guys in so long."

"Don't you think there's a reason for that, onna?" Vegeta grumbled as he splashed a palmful of water into his face in attempt to alleviate the heat burning inside him. When he looked back up to the mirror, he registered her resolute frown.

It reminded him that something must eventually be done about her defiance.

"I'm not going," he snapped and set his mouth in a thin line. "The thought of being around any of your low-class, idiot comrades for any period of time sickens me."

She was having none of it. Vegeta could already make out that infuriatingly certain glitter behind her irises as her reflection drew nearer. The cool touch of her palm against his back had his skin leaping away, and yet he remained still as her hands skimmed over him, across his back, allowing her long arms to wind around his middle. Carefully, Bulma leant into him, maintaining a prudent distance apart from him as her chin dropped into the nook of his shoulder and neck.

Admittedly, it disheartened her to watch as his sable gaze fought against her pressuring stare. "Oh, c'mon," she again cajoled. An idea occurred to her then, and Bulma's lips spread into an encouraging smile. "You know, Gohan-chan would probably do for a good spar. I think Chi Chi said he hasn't taken up his training as diligently as before."

Vegeta's throat made a tight noise of annoyance, and Bulma's arms folded just slightly further against his abdomen. "It would figure that child would start slacking off as soon as he had a whiff of peace. Worthless," he muttered to himself. Vegeta swung his eyes upward, in search of the woman's undoubtedly agitated glower, and he instantly regretted daring to do so; at once, he was held by her inquisitive gaze, and that promise of a smile.

His chest pulled out toward her hopeful reflection, and he loathed himself entirely as that throbbing organ behind his bones answered for him. "We will not be there long, onna. I _will_ leave you there," he threatened with irritation renewed as her torso finally pushed flush against him. Giggles rippled out of her and into him, sending jolting tremors down his spine and to his toes.

Bulma dipped her head and pressed a thankful kiss into the curve of his shoulder. Her mouth curved into a smile against his skin, and Vegeta bit the inside of his cheek against the stinging burn it seemed to leave. He glanced back to find her staring at him with rapt attention suddenly, and it drove him absolutely mad that he had to wonder – to even wonder at all.

"Vegeta, I can't believe I've never asked," Bulma spoke quietly, now with a vague surprise as that familiar questioning gaze roved over his tight, uncomfortable features. "But when is your birthday? You've never said."

When she settled her ear casually against his throat, he froze upon realization of their intimate proximity, suddenly at a loss.

* * *

**Author's Note: **During the Great Saiyaman arc, they kind of implied that Gohan frequented Capsule Corp. quite often. Which is super cool, 'cause it ALWAYS BOTHERED ME to think that these people - supposedly really good friends - could have these complete lives apart from one another. How do you go four years and NOT know one of your oldest and dearest friends has had a kid? Seriously?

Anyway, Vegeta seemed pretty companionable with Gohan in the Saiyaman and Buu arcs (as companionable as Vegeta can be) and Goten consistently addressed him as "uncle." So, I imagine he gradually allowed himself to become one of 'them.' He just needed a little persuasion, 'cause lord knows he would not go down without a fight!

Also, the question Bulma presents at the end strikes me as something that might be a big deal to Vegeta. Hell, would he even remember when his birthday was?


	10. Energize

_Puff …. Puff …._

On a relieved exhale, Bulma pushed herself into an upright position by her flat palms, her spine bending back into place with a satisfied twinge tingling through her muscles at the calming exertion. Upon lifting herself from Downward Facing Dog, however, she found herself facing a different sort of beast.

"Vegeta!" She breathed in surprise, a small smile beginning to brighten her features despite the strikingly awkward way he was eyeing her. "What're you doing? I thought you'd be out training."

"…What the hell were you just doing, onna?"

It wasn't often that she found him outright amusing; Vegeta was very seldom intentionally funny, and she usually wondered if he truly had any understanding of humor. However, the absolutely perplexed way that he was looking upon her now had Bulma's aching abs rioting against the giggles she felt stirring low. Smiling as politely as possible, she swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, dispersing the beads of sweat at her hairline, and her lips spread further as she noticed his strict attention.

"Yoga," she answered simply after another soothing intake of breath. Wordlessly, she gestured toward the kitchen with the empty water bottle she collected from the coffee table, though as she made to pass by him, his larger hand enveloped her forearm abruptly. With a scowl, Bulma pushed at his offending appendage. "Hey! What did we say about grabbing?"

Yet the Saiyan was suddenly inspecting her as he had when he had initially come to stay at her home, and nostalgia immediately struck her. That speculative, disdainful curiosity – like he wanted to ask, but had too much pride to lower hismelf to do such a thing. Many times before, she could find him leering over her shoulder as she worked on his gravitational machine, or intently taking in every movement she made to fix his first-ever helping of scrambled eggs. All the while silent, all the while trying to figure it out on his own.

Admittedly very endearing, albeit it often left her impatient and agitated. Yet that was then. Bulma's world now was filled to brimming with 'whys' and 'hows' courtesy of her inquisitive toddler and Vegeta's silent query proved to be rather refreshing. It was a gentler tug that Bulma gave from his grasp, a nod directed once more to the kitchen.

Thankfully, he released her, following her with quiet footsteps right up to the kitchen sink where she refilled her bottle. The pressure of his gaze behind her sent simultaneous waves of annoyance and something of a completely different nature washing over her, and Bulma peeked over her shoulder to spy him staring carefully at the back of her head. "Yoga," she repeated and turned, replacing the cap on her bottle. "It's a form of exercise. You've never heard of it?"

His silence was her answer, and Bulma bowed her head in understanding and her right shoulder rose and fell. "I kind of doubted you would. I don't think the Saiyans would have valued such a method."

Vegeta's brow twitched downward, the scowl returned to his forehead. "And that is supposed to mean what, exactly?"

"It wasn't an insult," Bulma backpedaled with a roll of her azure eyes. "Yoga's more meant to maintain a healthy body, muscle toning, and to help with flexibility and balance. It's not meant for fighting."

"Sounds useless," Vegeta grumbled. Yet Bulma's keen awareness of this man and all that he was comprised of told her that he still held a mild level of interest. "What were you doing it for? I've never seen you physically exert yourself, and you certainly possess none of those attributes, onna."

She stifled a snort of aggravation. Bulma's arms came up immediately to wrap over her expansive chest – it was a protected stance, and he knew it. "First of all, fuck you, Vegeta," she growled, that common vein throbbing behind her temple as his smirk slid into place, "and second of all, I never really needed to exercise. God graced me with a naturally gorgeous physique." While her conceit shined through, it was in a fraction of a second that it was gone again, and Bulma rested her hands upon her much fuller hips. "However, I also never had a post-baby body, thus leading me to certain … adjustments."

Her self-consciousness was as obvious as her beauty, and it endlessly bothered him to endure either of those things. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed the woman had filled out a bit, but more that wasn't it expected? As she had said, she had given birth. And it was not an altogether displeasing change, Vegeta considered with appreciation as he assessed her (_if possible_) more ample figure. "You're as unattractive as ever, onna," he allowed with a derisive snicker at her reddening features. "I see little change in your liberal girth."

Bulma's mouth fell open in horror at his teasing words, and rage quickly tore into her veins and flashed behind her baby blues as she violently chucked the liter of water at the spiky up-do across from her. Easily, Vegeta canted his head, and the bottle sailed past his ear to connect with the refrigerator. "You swine," she seethed, before brushing quickly past the chortling, chiseled bane of her existence.

Much to her frustration, it seemed as though Vegeta had not finished with her yet. His smugness still present over his features, the prince chose a comfortable position against the doorframe as Bulma fluttered about the room and returned to her Yoga mat. His presence ricocheted anger and fury all about her being, and she snapped her head up immediately to face him as something crystallized in her mind. "You should feel lucky that I let you fuck me, you know that?"

"You 'let me'?" Vegeta all but laughed around the words, his charcoal eyes dancing with mischief – and a hint of curiosity, as Bulma began to settle back down on the floor. "Interesting assumption, onna."

"That's not an assumption," Bulma continued blithely as she reclined on the floor, her knees drawn up and her feet planted firmly to her mat. With a gentle inhale, Bulma's torso slowly began to rise, creating an arch from her hips to her shoulders pressed against the ground as her feminine qualities protruded upward.

Despite his better senses telling him to sneer and turn away in disgust, Vegeta remained fixated on her vaulted form, taking in all that this 'yoga' position leant to his esteem.

Bulma tilted her head up a bit to spy his obserations from above her knees, and she couldn't fight the grin that pushed past her teeth and settled itself pleasingly in her stomach. "That's a fact."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I love confident Bulma, her vanity is such a funny part of the show sometimes. Now, we all know Vegeta would try to bring her down - but I know better! Bulma's a resilient little firecracker, and she certainly wouldn't take it lying down! ... Except, y'know, in this case. ;) I don't know what made me think of Vegeta watching Bulma do yoga, but I figure it'd be pretty interesting for him, at least.

I think I may later do a little chapter where she's trying to teach him yoga. We'll see. ;)

Thanks for all your reviews, by the way! I really, really appreciate your feedback!


	11. Love 'n' Hate

He caught her by the wrist unblinkingly, a smirk writ across his lips. Vegeta canted his head at her fury, amused and intrigued with her fuming. "Nice try," he mocked her efforts to rip away from his grasp, and he threw her arm away with a snort.

"You're an asshole," Bulma seethed through clenched teeth as she launched herself forward, palms outstretched to push violently against his unmoving, solid chest. Under her feet, shards of glass crunched – the remains of a vase, and the petals of the housed bouquet wilted and scattered about the tile. She gave another shove, her comparatively smaller muscles straining with the motion. Proving to be an unsuccessful endeavor, Bulma tried another maneuver.

Her arm swung outward, bringing her palm to crack flat against his tilted cheek. To her dismay, he reacted with little more than a blink.

Snickers rippled out of his throat as once again his hands latched about her arms. A sinister flash behind onyx eyes, before Bulma found herself pinned against the kitchen wall, both of her arms pressed tightly against her chest. She struggled underneath his dominance, wriggling furiously about as his hands gripped at her tighter, and Bulma groaned in absolute frustration.

"You're getting awfully worked up, onna," Vegeta coolly observed, those typically stern brows perked in lofty wonder. "You ought to settle down, before I _make_ you."

While the emphasis of his words definitely carried significance that ought to be heeded, Bulma barely felt the tug of caution behind her stomach. Her anger flared further, bubbling into droplets that dripped over her lashline. Bulma growled infuriately into his face, and her fingers flexed with the crashing waves of rage. "You always make such stupid threats!" She spat venomously. "Five years of the same bullshit, and for what?"

He laughed, and Bulma shouted out ferociously before she quickly moved forward to snap with glinting teeth at the thin flesh of the Saiyan's neck. Vegeta howled and jerked back from her, thrusting her body against the wall again with greater strength than perhaps intended. Bulma yelped as the back of her skull collided with the stone behind her, and several decorations teetered and toppled from their shelving above her.

Sniffling, she glanced up between the stars to find Vegeta glowering upon her with scarcely contained ire. She immediately recognized that predatory glimmer under his irises. It was rare, but there was no mistaking it.

The back of her hand coasted over her mouth, revealing a thin trail of red - similar in shade to the thickening patch at his pulse point. Bulma swallowed and tilted her chin up defiantly to his fierce countenance, her rubied lips trembling in betrayal. He began to advance again, a slow and silent creeping, and Bulma pushed herself flush back into the wall.

Both of his palms pressed against either side of her, and she twisted her head away from him, both blue eyes shutting hastily to avoid him – but he was still there. She grimaced against the trailing tip of his nose as he inhaled her fear and waning fury, as he registered his supremacy over her once more. He relished in the feel of her trembling beneath him, cowering away and trying to bury herself against the wall for shelter. Ribbons of adrenaline and pride fed into his veins and wound into his blood, and Vegeta smirked with a hint of teeth, pressing his nostrils into her hairline to breathe deep.

"You take things too lightly, onna," he warned her with a deeper intonation. Tauntingly, ominously. "It's very dangerous of you." Vegeta paused and listened closely, and he was rewarded by her panicked heart racing beneath her breast. "Shouldn't you know better?"

Cringing further from him still, Bulma wholly wished for him to disappear – to leave her alone for good; but he would do neither of those things, would he? It didn't seem to matter how much he hated it here, how much he loathed her or Earth or himself. Vegeta was always, always here, wasn't he? So, she'd just have to endure, wouldn't she?

Bulma sniveled reluctantly in response to his menacing closeness, her lashes tucked steadfast against her cheeks. She had to play dead, and then the predator would leave her alone, right? That's what they always say, isn't it?

With a frown, Vegeta glanced down and studied her crumpled expression; the bundle of skin knotted between her furrowed eyebrows, the tense line of her mouth, the rose of her cheeks. Whereas the sense of her terror had sent electric shocks prickling into his fingers, to witness it playing out over her painfully familiar features seemed to wither him inside to out.

So fleeting was his high and, growling, he pushed away from the wall and from her.

* * *

**Author's Note: **BY NO MEANS DO I CONDONE SPOUSAL ABUSE. Just putting that out there.

However, I don't think it's unrealistic to think Vegeta would have tried to intimidate Bulma a time or two throughout their relationship. I mean, you've seen this guy's temper - and Bulma's got a TERRIBLE mouth on her! For both of them, I think there'd be a bit of a power-play to their relationship and I'd imagine in the early stages it would be particularly so for Vegeta.

Though, admittedly, I maaaaaaay have written him a little dark here. Hey, this guy's hard to write for!

I'm not sure what they're fighting about here, but that's not what really matters. This is still set in the beginning of those seven years before the Great Saiyaman arc. When Bulma says "five years" I'm referring to the three prior to the Android saga, so this would be about two years post-Cell.


	12. Hanabi II

"Keep your eyes closed! No cheating!"

"This is fucking ridiculous…" Vegeta growled, trying to twist his face out from under Bulma's folded hands. She was ushering him about like a child to the promise of something worth his compliance. He was about fed up with her tricks. The woman had been fluttering about, just out of reach for weeks now. She was always up to something, always reeking of metal and chemicals and her efforts from each day of labor.

Enticing and disgusting all at once – and here, he had allowed her to drag him about the building, her dainty hands clasping abruptly over each of his eyes as she urged him forward from behind him, her chest pressed against him, begging him to play along.

The pitter-patter not far behind them told him the child was in tow as well, and he frowned deeper, hoping she'd catch the downward creases.

"I swear, onna, I am done. Get the hell off me—" the Saiyan snarled and reached up to pry her fingers apart from over his face.

Her laughter was inching up the back of his neck as she allowed him to forcefully remove her hands. Bulma peered around Vegeta's massive form to spy his agitation, and she beamed winningly in return. "You know," she began loftily, rounding the man with a wayward glance spared to her trailing child, "if you want this present, you should really be nicer to me."

"And what makes you think I give a damn about some 'present'?"

She pouted, her lower lip sticking out just far enough to antagonize him and annoy him. "I worked really hard on this, Vegeta," Bulma half-sighed, before that downtrodden gaze morphed into something a bit more wicked. "And dammit, you'd better be grateful! I didn't bust my ass—" (_Trunks gasped in awe of his mother's language_) "—So you could be a prick about it!"

"Shut up," he cut her continuing tirade short with an open palm and closed eyes. "Quit wasting my time with your incessant babble. There's training I could be doing, instead of allowing you to play your foolish games."

Something in his request seemed to lighten her mood. All at once, Bulma fell easily into her glee again, and she eagerly beckoned Trunks forward with an outstretched arm. Her son hurried forward into her waiting embrace, and Bulma hoisted him up on her hip as he laughed boyishly. Ignoring Vegeta's sneer of distaste, the blue-hued woman flourished with her free arm to the door behind her. "Your gift lays behind door number one, Your Highness," Bulma teased, as the child shifted against her hold. "Go ahead, take a peek."

Fleetingly perturbed by her mockery of his title, Vegeta tipped his nose up from her and eyed the closed doors skeptically. Another glance was thrown askance to the preening woman, and it did little to settle his impatience. With a sigh, he moved forward past her, his fingers deftly pressing into the red button beside the doors.

When they parted, Vegeta could not stifle the sharp inhale of surprise at what lay beyond.

"Well?" Bulma's voice beside his ear startled him, and Vegeta looked quickly upon her. His apparent surprise was enough to rile Bulma's insides and, heart aflutter and stomach twisting up in anticipation, she followed the Saiyan further into the expansive room.

The area was wide and spacious – undoubtedly half of the entire wing had been sacrificed to this endeavor. Located at the topmost floor, the walls and roof were sloped to the dome-shaped quality of the home's structure. Sleek black and sterling molding was inset around the walls and sturdy purple tiling lay at their feet. Somewhere in the walls, a dull humming signified the room had a greater function.

It was the closest to awe that Vegeta had ever come to when in regards to this woman and her accomplishments. He looked to her, finding her immersed in her own creations – her son and this room – as she was wandering about the interior and pointing out objects with Trunks as she allowed Vegeta his moment of wonder. When she turned back, a great smile graced her features, and she bent down to set Trunks upon his feet.

"What do you think?" Bulma queried as she righted herself and settled both hands at her hips; pride in her genius and in her efforts obvious in her high-chested stance.

"It's a gravity room," Vegeta offered blankly, and his dark eyes swung upwards to inspect the ceiling. "This is what you've been working on?"

He didn't see her nod, though her footfalls gradually closing in on him caught his attention in time to see her smile soften. "Yeah, this is it," Bulma exhaled her satisfaction, her gaze continuously roving his features for a sign, for anything resembling appreciation. If she couldn't find it, she supposed his marveling might satisfy her ego…

Abruptly, Vegeta turned away, something snatching his interest from her. He approached the large black control panel built into the adjacent wall, his hand skimming over the shiny buttons as a frown tilted his mouth southward now. "This isn't like the simulator."

"Better than," Bulma supplied with a grin, brightening at his sudden glance. "It's a more advanced model, with—"

"Why?"

The query came speedily. Bulma's eyes widened in surprise at his darkening stare, at the skepticism behind his eyes - the distrust. It weakened her heart a little bit to find him looking at her in such a way. "Just … because," she struggled for an appropriate answer, one that would make sense to him.

"I mean, it's not like you've been making major progress with the simulator out back. I've seen you – you're stuck," Bulma continued on, without malice or cruelty, but instead with complete sincerity and (if Vegeta was not mistaken) traces of concern. "So, I figured I'd build your something that runs a little harder and faster. And it's roomier!" Her arms spread outward to indicate the space. When the emotionless expression upon Vegeta's face seemed irremovable, Bulma dropped her limbs to her sides defeatedly. "I just thought you had outgrown it and needed something better."

Vegeta's tensed eyebrows leveled, and he settled a curious gaze upon the woman. "You built this for my advancement?"

A thought occurred to Bulma, then; a feasible excuse, one that would not scare him nor diminish her pride. A smile slowly spread over her lips as she then hitched a single shoulder, her hand stretching downward to grab at Trunks' reaching own. "That and I needed _some_ way to keep you out of my hair. There won't be any, 'Onna, that piece of shit's broken' or 'Onna, fix this now!'" Throughout her ridicule of Vegeta's demanding ways, Bulma adopted his typical scowl and deeply knitted brow, her free fist balling in mock-fury as she shook it in the air.

Below her, Trunks giggled and pointed up at his mother with a fat grin. "You play daddy really well, mama!" However, the young boy was permitted a quick warning frown from his father, and immediately the child fell into a hush once again.

Vegeta looked up from their lavender-haired son to appraise the woman now. "Hn. Really? Well, we will see how long this junker holds up, onna," Vegeta countered with a derisive snort, and he turned his profile to his son and Bulma. "Now, leave me."

A groan of exasperation erupted from Bulma's lungs as she spun away from the Saiyan, her hand still wrapped firmly about Trunks' smaller one as she tugged him along beside her. Yet her heart pound furiously against her throat, willing her to linger and to try again, and Bulma hesitated by the door catch a departing glimpse of Vegeta.

Now, it could've been the light. It could've just been her imagination. But as the ghost of a smile appeared to inch up his mouth, Bulma nevertheless found herself buoyed by a certain fulfillment.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And I'll make up for the angry B/V in the previous chapter with something sweet. Yay, family togetherness! Anyway, this is an idea that has been floating around in my head for a while now.

When I saw that Vegeta had a training room INSIDE Capsule Corp. during the Great Saiyaman arc, I was all, "AWWW, BULMA BUILT HIM A NEW GRAV ROOM!" So I just wanted to imagine how it would play out when she'd show him his new toy. ;)

Trunks is a little older now, so I'd say this is about three years, maybe almost four, after Cell.


	13. Whatever

Her bold curse of agony had his feet moving toward the labs before his mind had time to catch up. By the time he had the white passage opened, Vegeta was only just beginning to wonder of his haste. Yet he found her there, settled on the floor, her forearm clutched to her chest as she seethed in pain – and why he moved didn't matter so much as the red liquid dripping over her coat's crisp lapel.

"What the hell did you do to yourself now, onna?" He groused and approached, squatting by her side to reach out for her wounded arm. When Bulma sobbed and recoiled from his intrusion, Vegeta growled and rolled his eyes, making another grab for her. "You idiot, let me see it!"

"No! I just need—"

"Shut up," Vegeta spoke over her heavily, as both of his arms looped smoothly around her back and bent knees. She allowed him to lift her with little fuss, spare a sharp inhale as her arm was jostled amid the shifting, her head thrown back with the sharp pain shooting through her flesh.

"Kitchen, Vegeta," she commanded between her teeth, and he complied with her directions. Gently, he settled her atop the counter, and he bent his head to peer between her clutched arms. "Don't touch--!" She half-yelped as his fingers easily pried her left hand from her arm, separating the shield. Revealed to him was a mild gash across her forearm, about three inches in length. Tolerable to him, reaper of unbearable anguish for her.

"Where are the medical supplies?" He rumbled while squinting over the wound, wishing he could find a reasonable excuse for her apparent distress. Her scrunched expression had his patience wearing thin. These earthlings were such fragile creatures, weren't they? Flimsy and effortlessly breakable. He wanted terribly to feel more than just embarrassment for her, to feel disgust or perhaps even amusement at her plight – but neither stirred within him.

With a shaky finger, Bulma gestured toward the lower cabinets with her unscathed arm. "Second shelf! Get some band-aids and an alcohol swab!" He did not seem to move quickly enough to her liking, as behind him he heard her wail, "C'mooon! Hurry! I'm getting blood everywhere, Vegeta!"

He began to think fondly of such a notion, albeit the image did not prove so satisfying when his brain wrapped completely around it. Disappointed by the wash of concern that followed her whimper, he ripped the blue medical box from its hiding place between brightly colored cookie jars and he drew up to the counter beside her. The clear lid flipped over, opening to him an array of packages fairly foreign to him. Some he recognized: the bandages the woman would place over the brat's knees when he got scruffed up outside, thermometers for taking body temperature, gauze he found himself wrapped in often only scant years ago.

Eyes scanning the labels, he spotted quickly the 'alcohol swab', and he tore at the dashed seal to remove the damp cloth. Vegeta curled his nose up at the staunch medical scent, immediately finding distaste for the sheet. "The hell is this for?"

Bulma brandished her wound to him and glanced away, an inclination to her injury given. For whatever reason, Vegeta felt that it would not be the best idea to wipe the cloth over her wound. The stench alone had him tempted to throw it away, what could it do for her arm? However, to avoid much more of her verbal agonizing, he did as told and lowered the tiny white cloth over the pooling opening.

His assumption was justified. At once, Bulma cried out and yanked her arm from him, that plump lower lip caught jaggedly under her teeth.

"It was your idea, idiot!"

"I know, I know!" She whined, presenting the shaking limb out to him again. "But it hurts, oh god—"

"Then hold still—"

"Vegeta, no!" Bulma sobbed as he ran the cloth as slowly and properly as he could given her trembling. "You're done cleaning it, c'mon! Now you're just having fun! Stop, stop, please…" She writhed and wriggled on the counter, trying to pull her arm out from his grasp while her heels stabbed at the counter and at his knees, bringing him to grit his teeth and tug forcefully at her appendage.

"Bulma!" He reprimanded over her childish cries, and her protests came to an abrupt halt.

Aggravated to the core by her to-do, Vegeta worked quickly to rid her milky skin of the rest of that sticky crimson fluid, bringing the pink slice to open air. He was already ripping the white paper from the bandage before she even instructed him to do so. Carefully, his fingers spread the large flesh-colored adhesive over her grievance, securing the strip with an even press of his index digit.

The precision with which he applied a simple band-aid kept Bulma mute as she observed him, mesmerized by the restrained movements. It struck her suddenly that he was tending to_ her_ – not the other way around, as it had always been, for years and years and years. And the tensing of his brows, the sincerity that he employed in his care, the firm but subtle grip at her arm… What was this in him, now rearing its quiet and wondering head at her?

As if on cue, the Saiyan lifted his inky eyes to the probing, reflective ponds of her gaze. Suddenly unsettled, suddenly at unease. There; he saw it. Buried beneath layers of curiosity and marveling, he found yearning pulsating behind her pupils. His hand leapt from her and Vegeta rose to his full stance before her, rigidity saving him from the pressure of her stare.

Bulma realized a moment too late she had been caught. As he stood, she blinked away those tumbling, unwarranted needs - pushed them back down where they belonged. "It was the compression coil spring," she blurted out, lifting her gaze back up to him. "I didn't have it set right, and so--"

"—And so, once again, your carelessness astounds even me," Vegeta's eyes avoided her as he mocked her, his jet eyes sailing instead toward the ceiling. "Do not anticipate my assistance next time, Bulma," he warned with a casual arch of his eyebrow, a final quick once-over of the woman granted before he pivoted and marched straight-backed from the kitchen.

She slid unhurriedly from the counter as soon as his footfalls had faded, her jaw slackening in the place of where her typical fury might lay. A dull ache was beginning to wind up her arm now, yet Bulma found herself preoccupied by her own name ringing stridently between her ears.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, not gonna lie. I'm totally in love with the idea of Vegeta finally using Bulma's proper name instead of always calling her "woman" or "idiot." In the show, up until the Great Saiyaman arc I'm pretty sure he only calls her "Bulma" when he's thinking of her, but never to her face or to the others. Maybe I'm wrong, though.

I think that by using her name, it really humanizes her to him - it means she matters. She's worth putting a name to. And by having him inadvertantly address her as such, by NOT consciously making the decision to call her by her name, I think it means something more: he already thinks of her in value and deserving of a name, and he has to make efforts every day to hide that and consistently address her as otherwise.

Why? Because Vegeta's weird and a jerk who has intimacy issues.

ANYWAY. Just a random scene that came to me the other day. Still around 3 years post-Cell.


	14. In the corner

"Mama?"

"Hmmm?"

Quiet filtered through the air. Recognizing this tactic, Bulma glanced down from her mechanical blueprints to the mop of lavender hair below her. "Nani, Trunks-chan?"

Wondrous blue eyes swelled up at her, and she was sure she could see her reflection in them. "Where's dad gone to?"

This query was not an uncommon one. It was almost typical for Trunks to wander into her labs and tug on her pant leg, wondering where his elusive and reclusive father had spirited off to. And, despite her massive intellect and the frequency of the Saiyajin no Ouji's disappearing acts, Bulma had yet to riddle out a factual answer for her child. But she had developed a safe, satisfactory response over time. "Your dad's just gone off for some alone time," her lips laced into a tight smile as she twisted back to her paper strewn desk. "He'll come back soon, Trunks-chan," she added reflexively.

"But he's always alone," Trunks piped, startling Bulma. The young boy's face was a mask of imperceptible rejection and confusion. He concealed it well (she was sure he had his father's genes to thank for that) albeit barely so to her motherly attention. Her heartstrings plucked painfully at the slight frown that pulled his chubby cheeks downward, at the firmness of his set jaw. "Why doesn't he ever invite us along?"

"Well, I—" Bulma stuttered over an explanation, her mind grasping valiantly for something proper to say. "It's just … that's just your dad, Trunks-chan. You know that."

"But why?"

She bit her lip. Usually, Bulma could trick up something agreeable to her son. But even she suffered complications in getting her brain all the way around this issue. Like when she caught herself thinking of it, tangled up alone in her blankets, as the night beat down her windows, and she'd think of him on mountains and--

"He's not gonna be like Goten-kun's dad, is he?"

Yellow acid raced up her throat and Bulma turned sharply away from her child. "Trunks-chan! You don't say things like that!" She gasped, suddenly breathless, and she pressed a hand over her chest. When she settled a tentative glare upon Trunks, he seemed unsettled by that aching reprimand. "That's mean to Goten-chan," Bulma chided him, as bullets of salt water threatened the coasts of her lashlines.

Trunks harrumphed like his father and folded his arms defiantly against his mother's gentle berating. "I was only sayin'," he grumbled. "I don't want my dad to go away like that."

A wisp of a smile feathered over Bulma's lips, and her hand extended to lie lovingly atop her child's lilac tresses. "He's not going to, sweetie," she reassured him in a way that surprised her. Her ears burnt under the words. "Between all your questions and all of mommy's nagging, sometimes dad just needs to go be somewhere quiet."

Trunks ducked out from under her hand, and he playfully swatted her red nails away. "Awe, I can be quiet, mama! You can, too!" He put his index finger to his lips and blew out air between his teeth. _Shhhhh._

Inclined to laugh though she was, Bulma knew better. She opted for a silent smile instead and shook her head against his hopeful beaming. "I think even if we tried our best, your dad would still be able to hear us, Trunks-chan."

The boy slumped all over, defeat riddled in his features; he'd make it known if he wanted it to be known. An affectation of overdramatic emotions – which he most certainly inherited from her. "Boooooo," he jeered and immediately righted himself. Strong soldier one second, optimistic child the next. "But he's gonna come back soon, right?"

"Of course he will," Bulma laughed at his buoyancy, the back of her hand dismissing her son. He hurrahed loudly and skittered out of her lab, thumping flat-feet down the hall, his laugh reverberating around her.

Azure eyes cast down to the prints spread out across the tabletop, though the images seemed so briefly nonsensical. Bulma tapped her nails impatiently against the intricately dashed lines beneath her hands, trying to decipher the pattern.

* * *

**Author's Note: **One of my shorter chapters, I know. I felt this scene didn't need too much to it, I think it speaks quite well the way it is.

I always thought it was cool that Vegeta - who struggled very much with his affections for his family and his feelings towards Earth - never really left for prolonged periods of time, like Goku did. But I don't think he wouldn't have stayed there 24/7. Vegeta's got his limits, and seeing how conflicted he was around the Buu saga, I'm sure he took some time away from his family to battle with himself over it, but he'd eventually come back.

This will be kind of a three-part piece to my collection. I'll end up doing a Vegeta centric piece, then one on his coming back.

I imagine Trunks around age 5 here, so I'd place this at three years or so before the Great Saiyaman arc, a little over four years Post-Cell.


	15. I am

There was something equivocally appealing about the Earth.

He could never place it.

Somehow … it had crawled into his veins and settled there.

Since the first inhalation, he thought, fists clenched.

Here, up high, it reached him most. The places where civilization had not dipped its polluted fingers were always calling out to him. The places that remained fresh and clean, unsoiled by humanity.

The flora spread out beneath his eyes like a quilt. Tops of trees and plots of land became a patchwork of kelly green. How was it he could never recall such vibrancy in hue, anywhere in the galaxy?

Vegeta was worldly, in every sense of the word. He had seen more of this universe than half of the stars that winked from their stations trillions upon trillions of miles away.

This ball of rock and mud and water and otherwise absolutely insignificant life forms would have caught a pretty sum on the market. Potentiality was rife between the shifting plates that lay under the massive, stretching oceans, in every swell of air, in every branch of growth and green.

Potentiality. Untapped and wholly wasted.

The vigor of this planet was being warped and drained by its lowly inhabitants, day by day. Its virtues ever-squandered, Vegeta knew there were better, worthier realms.

And yet he couldn't find the effort to stray. He wanted to, desperately, sometimes. The urgency to evacuate would steal his breath away and he'd be left gasping. But intangible, powerful roots wound about his heels and held him fast.

It drove him mad.

His wills and wants battled and clawed and sank him constantly. It was dire, the need to expose the mysteries of Earth's quiet seduction. But they weren't really so mysterious, were they? It certainly wasn't the view alone that had left him speechless and gave moment for pause.

Vegeta bit his tongue sharply at the thought.

The Saiyajin no Ouji believed completely in destiny. His mind's eye had a crystal clear vision of what it should entail for him. Quadrants should kneel to his rule, civilizations should beg of his mercy (of which he would have none), and all should be in awe of his overwhelming power. And he had been made to watch as the achievability of that destiny slipped away from him. Vegeta was sickened by an astounding truth.

He had_ allowed_ it to fade away.

A fire erupted from his palm and in a haze of blue, the air stilled and crackled around him. The immense trunk across from him shredded apart like cloth.

Shouldn't he want for nothing? Shouldn't the universe and all its corners be his? Scant years ago, Vegeta was prepared to capture immortality and reign supreme – over this and all worlds. Miscalculations and hesitation had inevitably led to his fall and, rather than ascend again, he remained clinging to the bottom rung. It wasn't for fear. His entire youth spent underneath the deadliest of all the galaxies' dictators, Vegeta had come to fear little to none throughout the cosmos.

He thought of Kakarotto. That pathetic, third-class, sorry excuse for a Saiyan. Rage tore through him upon consideration of that stupid, inerasable smile – the one that lingered, even at death's door. The ultimate prize had belonged to the buffoon all along, hadn't it? Effortlessly, Kakarotto had succeeded in achieving what he, himself, always found unattainable.

True destiny, accomplished.

Kakarotto had been light years ahead of him. Vegeta, the prince of the mightiest race of warriors, left trailing in the wake of an outcast's glory.

His blood boiled under his skin, and Vegeta felt his scalp warming. Every follicle of hair tingled with his power.

Even with Kakarotto gone for good, Vegeta still refrained from rising to his rightful throne. That nagging tug on his boot again, keeping him down, reminded him. He seethed to himself.

Something bright blue had been violently scribbled over nearly twenty-five hundred days.

The fondness he had grown to experience toward the woman and the…**ir** child – he wasn't sure when it had spiraled into the dreadful cocktail that comprised his psyche.

Imagining her and how it was before all the complications, he recalled his frequent daydreams of putting a hand around her neck and squeezing until her light flickered out for good. He frowned to himself.

She had been consistently present throughout the duration of his inhabitance of her home. As though she had belonged there with him, living in the same world with him. As though she wanted to be there. Bulma's openness, the radiation of her unabashed warmth, and the brazen candidness with which she breezed through life had tempted him. And when she had offered, Vegeta unwittingly accepted her invitation.

What a mistake, he considered with frustration. A foolish mistake.

A smirk upturned his sour mouth as Vegeta peered over the cliff's edge, and he envisioned his son. It had initially been rather trifling and exasperating, allowing himself to be held to the 'father' role in that boy's world. Vague memories of his own father were all but withered throughout his aging, to none of which he could or would ever aspire. Over time, as his own pride had begun to sputter out, Trunks' adoration of him – and the boy's own promise to power - had quickly sparked him out of remission. While the boy was still young, he certainly saw a glimmer of possibility in him.

Whether he felt satisfaction or resentment toward such a realization varied often.

Something irrefutable twinged under his chest. Scowling, Vegeta kicked at a sizeable stone with the toe of his boot, knocking it down into the world again.

Vegeta heaved a hearty breath, his wide chest expanding and relaxing, as he struggled under the weight of his extensive considerations. Tilting his chin up toward the horizon, the dark irises of his eyes focused on the brushstrokes over the dusky sky.

He closed his eyes solemnly, and he sought them out across the world.

There, he placed them.

Tiny pinpricks of unmistakable familiarity in the distance.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, soooo .... this chapter's all poetical-y, kind of, because it just seemed SO Vegeta-esque! I really used this chapter as a way to dig into his character for myself and see what I could find, to try and see if I could nail down my characterization of him a little better.

I have to say, the song for which this chapter was titled is my absolute favorite of Ayumi Hamasaki's and I think it's one of her more powerful songs. For this song, I really wanted to write a chapter that would do its message justice. Hopefully, I did just that.

Second part of my three-part "arc" or ... whatever you wanna call it. Still about 4-ish (closer to 5) years after the Cell Games. At one point in the chapter, Vegeta mentions "nearly twenty-five hundred days." I did the math and, assuming he was physically living on Earth - with Bulma - for a little over six years, it rounds up to about that. I'll say 6.5 years because I don't think he lived solely on Earth for the whole _THREE YEARS_ period. I could be wrong; numbers aren't my forte. ;)


	16. Still Alone

"Okay, now you have a good time, sweetie," Bulma told her son, her hand unwavering from the crown of his head. She glanced up to Gohan (_when had this boy outgrown her?_) and flashed a wide smile. "Tell Chi Chi I say 'hi.' We should really get together for dinner sometime soon—"

As Gohan was opening his mouth, Trunks interrupted with a grumble of discontent. "I don't wanna go over, now."

Both the woman and older boy seemed startled by this admission, exchanging uncertain blinks between one another. "Trunks-chan, what do you—"

"Not when dad's here," Trunks gestured toward the ceiling with his index finger. "If he's here, I don't wanna go to their house. I wanna see him."

While she had felt the tickling of his presence, Bulma had not considered that the Saiyan had really returned (so soon?) to home. However, her son's blatant disregard to company had her glowering and kneeling down to his height, both hands planted firmly across his shoulders. "You know, you're being very rude, Trunks-chan," she reprimanded the boy. Even as a pout overwhelmed his features, Bulma continued undeterred, "Gohan-chan came all this way, and Goten-chan is expecting you. You're going to be mean to them like that?"

"But dad—"

"Your dad will be here when you get back," Bulma reassured with the smallest twitch at her mouth. "Just go have fun with Gohan-tachi. You haven't seen them in forever, right?"

The lilac haired boy considered his mother's arguments and, with an overdramatic sigh, he appeared to agree. "Fiiiine," Trunks drawled, readjusting the strap of his overnight bag. "But you better make sure he's here tomorrow! Ja ne, mama!"

He was quick – but Bulma was quicker. Before he could spin away, she caught him around the arm and pulled him up close for a deliberate and lingering smooch to his cheek. Trunks flushed pink in embarrassment, a lackluster attempt to wriggle away made before he conceded to his mother's show of affection.

"Behave," Bulma warned him as he withdrew from her grasp, and she rose to full height again. She tipped her head to Gohan, that ghost of a smile widening just slightly. "Gohan-chan, teach my boy some manners, won't you?"

"Hai!" The eldest Son responded brightly, dropping his head for a hasty bow, before he lifted his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Ja, Bulma-san!" Gohan waved then in farewell to the woman, as he and Trunks exited the home.

For a while longer, Bulma continued watching them as they climbed atop Kinto'un and zoomed off into the distance. She did not pull herself from the window until the yellow cloud became nothing more than a glitter on the horizon, her smile gradually melting away as they grew harder and harder to discern from the golden swath that haloed the sunset. The woman heaved a sigh, the palm of her hand slowly lifting away from the window pane as she pushed back and hesitated. Concentrated.

Bulma focused her attention on the quiet humming from a few stories above her, and she considered her options.

From the topmost floor, Vegeta could feel her ascent. The commotion beneath him had ceased and, for a moment, he was curious as to whether or not she'd come find him. Yet the wonder lasted only seconds, for many floors below him, he sensed her hesitation slip away.

Vegeta felt conflicted. There was satisfaction that she was on her way to meet him and apprehension of what was to come. A tension was palpable throughout the compound; he could feel it even before he had settled. Confusing and irritating, it itched at his skin and at his brain, making him – to his frustration - anxious. It had always been a common occurrence, for him to venture away and then return, unannounced but welcomed nevertheless. But there was something off this time. It maddened him, to be unable to name it directly.

Something fluttered in his stomach, and he clenched his teeth against it.

Deciding suddenly, Vegeta moved his fingers swiftly, shutting down the gravity simulation.

The room seemed to die once the lights had dimmed and the whir of machinery quieted. Unsettled by the stillness, he turned and started for the doors. He'd see the woman halfway, if that.

The steel portal parted, opening up to him a vision of determination. Bulma stood there, her hands balled into nervous knots at her sides, her brow knit. She didn't appear riled or startled by his apparition; quite the contrary, the woman looked to have anticipated his arrival.

"Welcome back," she offered in greeting, and he responded with silence in kind. "Did you enjoy your alone time, Vegeta?" Bulma tried her best to sound clinical and detached, though she seemed unable to completely mask the true meaning under her words.

"I did," Vegeta assured her coolly, moving past her and through the hall. He heard her heels clicking behind him; she was following him. As conversationally as he could, he queried over his shoulder, "The boy left with Kakarotto's son?"

The sound of her shoes halted, and so, too, did the Saiyan.

"It's not fair." The wavering of her voice was more pronounced, and it took most of his resolve to refrain from turning toward her. "Do you know what that says when you do that? To me?" She paused, and Vegeta heard her throat catch. "To us?"

He moved sideways now, allowing her his quarter-profile. Her face was tight with effort to maintain hold of herself, but the cracks were there and widening. Big blue eyes were aglow with the fervor of her emotions, and the vibrations of her heart's furious beating were obvious from where he stood apart from her.

"Should it matter?" Vegeta sounded aloof.

Bulma shook with restraint, certain that bloody crescent marks would be left in her palms when this was done. She'd have to clean them when she'd go to her room and inevitably spend this evening and the next alone. By the time they'd be healed, he'd be back under her covers and warming her up. It infuriated her.

"To you, it should," she informed him sharply. "Why is it—" Her breath hitched, and she felt her heart hit the back of her mouth.

Unbidden, tears leapt and pooled into her eyes. Her teeth tore at the corner of her mouth as she glanced away from him, shamed he could see her crying. His detachment was galling and hurt her in a way she hadn't hurt in a long time.

_Why him?_ Her mind racketed against her.

"Why is it so hard for you?" Bulma blurted out desperately toward the ceiling. "I don't get it," she half-laughed, settling her bleary gaze back over him. "We make it so easy for you, you know. And you just struggle against it." Bulma's hand motioned outward to him rather helplessly.

He imagined that she was reaching out to him in a way, and Vegeta thought about recoiling. "You have no idea, Bulma," he muttered, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. That obvious anguish he found in her now, so unlike the kind that accompanied brutality. What was spilling from her now was something rare and seemed almost obscene to him.

"Oh, no?" The woman sniffled derisively and tucked a cropped blue lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were pink under the brunt of her emotions. "I _know_ it's easy," her finger prodded earnestly into her own chest. "Don't tell me it's not! I know it can be! But you won't let it!" Bulma turned her head from him to cover a sob, spitting out angrily, "Stubborn!"

Something in his chest propelled him forward several brisk steps, until he was at arm's length from her. When she didn't meet his gaze, or even react to his approach at all, Vegeta fumed. "Don't presume to know me," he growled, his hand lashing out to capture her forearm tightly. "Or anything that I'm about, do you understand me?" She still didn't look up, and so he shook her roughly, willing her eyes to find his. To acknowledge him. "Bulma!"

"What?!" She snapped her head up with a shout, her pretty face contorted with distress. "What do you want?!"

It wasn't just another shrill cry of agitation. There was something buried there, in between her pitch and in the choice of her words, visible only in her aching, watery stare.

"I start to think you're halfway there," Bulma's voice found his ears, and Vegeta turned his head slightly away from the sound. "And then you just step away from us." Silence passed between them, his hand becoming clammy over her skin, her heartbeat rioting under his fingertips. Finally, she wondered softly, "Where is it that you go, Vegeta?"

Vegeta released her arm abruptly, and he pivoted, as though to leave. He certainly wanted to; so much so that he could swear he felt the heavens parting above them to make room for his escape. But her trembling behind him and the residual weight of her arm still phantoming in his hand made him painfully aware that what he really desired was not elsewhere – on Earth, or in the galaxy beyond them.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't felt her nearing him, and he was caught off-guard by her hand suddenly at his bicep. She gripped his muscles there, urging him to turn back to her, and his feet shuffled until he faced her.

Before Vegeta had a moment to catch her gaze, Bulma had surged forward, her long arms looping about his neck as she invited herself into him. She pushed nearer, leveraging herself against him, as though to anchor them both down. Her breath hit the shell of his ear, "Just don't leave like that again, okay?" It was a quiet plea – one that was full of concern and urgency, one that sounded weary, yet still somehow hopeful.

Vegeta sighed heavily and lifted his hands, settling them at the small of her back, and he pressed her closer to him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This chapter is actually kind of integral to my story, I think. Part of the whole reason I wanted to write this story is to figure out why Vegeta never really wants to accept or return affection to Bulma and Trunks.

End of that tiny arc! Next chapter, we'll be a little bit closer to the Great Saiyaman arc.


	17. Step You

Upon sight of his looming shadow, Bulma grinned. And as his hands fell over the bend of her waist, her mouth slid into a smirk.

"You're interrupting me," she chastised him loftily as her fingers tickled idly at her crimson toenails. It was in mirror of his drumming at her waist.

"What's this you're doing now, onna?" His question was emphasized with a pointed squeeze at her hip.

Heavily, mostly in agitation, Bulma sighed and rolled her eyes. With a final flex of her digits, she moved upright, his nearness behind her hindering the fluidity of the motion. She twirled, his hand falling from her sides as she did so, and Bulma arched a brow in mimic of his own perturbed expression. "I've told you this before," she reminded him and issued another sigh upon his furthered squinting. "It's yoga. Exercise."

"Oh," Vegeta's eyes fell down to the mat on the floor, and then found the prattling female on the television screen. "That."

Despite his condescension, Bulma could easily pinpoint the flickering flame of interest that hid just beyond his pride. A smile curved anew over her lips, and she gave a playful tug to his elbow. "You should try it," she suggested, immediately rewarded by a sneer of disdain. "Seriously, Vegeta! Who knows," Bulma released his arm and approached her mat again with a shrug. "You might even become - _gasp! -_ relaxed!" Arching out her shoulders, she snickered to herself and tilted her head back to spy the tip of his oddly spiked hair. "Oh, but of course. We can't have that, can we?"

Vegeta had certainly picked up on a calmness in the woman's demeanor of late. Briefly, he considered whether or not this quote-unquote 'exercise' of hers really had anything to do with her gradual easiness. Were it true, he supposed it would not be entirely beneath him to investigate the rest of its benefits - including, but not limited to, Bulma's slimmer waistline and firmer stomach. A grumble of annoyance inched out of his chest as Bulma turned her head to offer him the coyest of grins.

_This woman._ He still didn't have it completely figured out. How could he allow himself to be roped into such acts of humiliation?

Vegeta approached her side and shuffled awkwardly at her sudden beaming, a reddish tint rising uninvited into his cheeks. "Now what?" He bit out, his best efforts thrown into ignoring her obvious pleasure in his succumbing to her request.

"Just watch the lady on the screen," she told him. As her words ended, the aforementioned instructor began her explanation of the Sun Salutation pose. In silence, the couple moved together with the woman's soothing instructions. Upright they stood, their pressed palms swinging upward on an inhale, their backs arching gently with the movement. Exhaling, both bent forward, their hands at their feet – inhaling, their legs were stepping back.

The unison movement unnerved Vegeta to a degree. He felt the hair on the backs of his arms and neck rising in suspicion of his own actions – and those of Bulma's. Stealthily, he observed her out of the corner of his eye. He was uncertain of the sudden leap of his stomach at her pleasant expression; she was calm and comfortable, unaware of his reservations.

"You should really be watching the screen, Vegeta," Bulma spoke abruptly, startling him out of his pensive state. Mouth moving like a fish, he shifted into her similar position and refocused upon the television.

As they moved downward from the plank position together on another exhale, Vegeta became aware of pretty blue eyes falling over his profile. "Who isn't paying attention now?" He mocked her with raised eyebrow, refraining from placing his consideration upon the woman at his side.

"I know this posture by heart," Bulma half-laughed, though she kept her gaze trained on him, even as they stretched into Upward Dog. She groaned aloud as the muscles in her back accommodated to the position. Vegeta's smirk only served as an added irritant. "Oh, shut up," she spat aggressively, her face finally turning away from him. "We can't all be super-human."

"Not human in the least," the Saiyan snorted and glanced sideways, conveniently missing Bulma's simulated gagging motion. When he had returned his interest to her again, Vegeta found her as he had once upon a time before. Bulma had already moved into the Downward Dog; the most favorable of all these postures, he considered with a smirk, as he allowed his gaze to rove freely over her body.

Further annoyed by his non-compliance and keenly aware of his lascivious staring (and a bit flustered by the awkwardness of her position), Bulma glared at him from behind her propped arm. "Oh, so you're too good for this, then?" Through grit teeth, she snarled, "Jerk."

"Don't think for a second I'd lower myself to such embarassing lengths, onna," he chuckled darkly, and he instead settled himself into a similar lunge that Bulma had dropped into. "Believe me when I say this won't be happening again."

It was Bulma's turn to smirk and giggle as she and Vegeta moved into the head-to-knee position. They bent forward in tandem once again. "That should be your motto," she advised into her knees, unable to contain her amusement at the sharp glower he shot her way. "We could even get it printed on a bunch of shirts or buttons, with your handsome mug on all of them. Sell them, make tons of money. I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of other men who tell themselves just that."

Together, they rose and arched slowly, two sets of limbs reaching overhead. "Have you always been out of your mind, or have I done this to you?" Vegeta wondered of her, sans any particular worry. "Truly my greatest work yet, should that be the case," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh, it's almost _all _you," she pretended to swoon and faced him as the video informed its viewers to pursue a break. "Though, Trunks has definitely aided you in the complete destruction of my sanity." Before Vegeta could retort, however, something seemed to occur to Bulma then. "Oh, Trunks," she breathed, her brows creasing together in a vision of concern.

"What about him now?" Vegeta groaned in exasperation. It seemed that with every day that passed, this woman found something else to fret about over their offspring. Granted, she was not nearly as irritating as Kakarotto's mate…

"I can't believe I've forgotten to tell you," Bulma shook her head in disbelief of absentmindedness and perhaps to dislodge whatever information she had stored away. "It's so— I mean, you're just not going to believe it! When Chi Chi told me, I—"

_Ah._ "If it's anything to do with that harpy, keep it to yourself," he cut her off abruptly, his palm presented to her. "Any concern of hers is not worth enduring. You'd do best to wipe your mind of it—" His voice rose louder, as Bulma's mouth began to move again in protest. "-Because I will not suffer through it."

Though she seemed to struggle for the right to continue, Bulma appeared to inevitably settle. He completely expected her to launch into further explanation despite his warning, and when none came, Vegeta felt rather put out. "Fine," she finally exhaled. "But when you find out, don't say I didn't try to tell you."

"I'll keep it in mind," he gruffed and lifted his onyx eyes to the ceiling and back down to her features. Her unwavering stare was beginning to take its toll on his patience, and so he jerked a thumb toward the television. "Is this done, then?"

"Huh?" She stumbled into reality again and glanced toward the flickering screen. "Oh. Oh, yeah," Bulma muttered and reached to the coffee table for the remote, clicking a couple of buttons to properly shut off the television and video alike. With a quick breath, she looked up to him with a half-smile, querying in her best impersonation of him, "What is it that you want, now?"

Grunting, he took her by the arm and pulled, leading her in the direction of what she knew to be the kitchen. Bulma paled as the word fell out of his mouth.

"Dinner."

"Vegeta, no!" She cried out amidst her attempts to yank away from him. "I just exercised! We can't eat after a work-out!"

"The hell we can't!" Vegeta growled, a streak of anger lashing through his mind at the very notion. He remained unrelenting on his grip of her appendage as he thought on it and countered over his shoulder, "Besides, no one said _you_ had to eat."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'M ALIVE! Sorry, I suffered through writer's block - I really was in love with my last chapter and couldn't figure out how to move from there into the next one - and some real life stuff has been a nuisance. But here we go! I told you I'd do a Vegeta+Bulma yoga chapter!

I've got the last three chapters planned out, so expect them up within the next week or so. I'm just gonna round this fic off at an even 20 chapters, I think. I really could just do more and more (these one-shots are so fun!) but I think where I have it planned to end should be enough.

This is set sometime during the early part of the Great Saiyaman arc - perhaps just a bit before. Anyone want to guess what Bulma's secret about Trunks is? ;)


	18. Game

"Okaaaasaaaaaan!"

Trunks' joyful bellow was followed quickly thereafter by his squawk of indignant pain. Bulma chuckled to herself as she rounded the corner from the laboratory wing, happy to find both her men striding in from the atrium. She took them both in, thoroughly enjoying the sight of them – together and natural – and suddenly striking her with a comforting jerk low in her chest.

"Back so soon?" Her query was meant more for the full-blood Saiyan, whose dark eyes swept derisively over his son as he energetically bounced at knee level. She caught his gaze with a smirk and a cant of her head, before she knelt to Trunks' height and welcomed his hurried embrace.

"An hour isn't soon," Vegeta grouched and began past the mother-son couple with a snort. He paused at the archway of the kitchen, casting a sudden glower over his shoulder – leveled at Trunks, who was finally drawing away from Bulma's limbs. "You're _welcome_."

Taken aback and apparently shamed by his lack of forethought, Trunks fell at once into a deep bow. "Arigato gozaimasu, otousan!" He all but recited the thanks, though his sincere look of gratitude melted in moments once his attention wandered upon his mother's amused expression. "Okaasan, it was great!"

A growl sounded behind her, and Bulma turned too late. Vegeta had already disappeared. Shrugging indifferently, her eyes settled upon her lively bundle of lavender. "Was it now? Like, how great?"

"There were all these rides! Otousan didn't ride them, but I did. OH! AND! And there was this huge cow! With horns and that weird pouchy boob thing!" Trunks gestured crudely to his belly, his hands outstretched and his fingers splayed, wiggling for emphasis. Bulma's hands swatted his imaginary udder away, and he visibly deflated under her disapproval. "Naaaaniiii? That's what they're like."

Trunks sagged further once his mother's manicured nails came upon his shoulders and pushed him toward the stairs. "Oh, don't you try to pull that now," Bulma reprimanded her son for his unwillingness to shuffle forward. "You need to get ready for bed. It's already getting late." She gave another forceful shove, and he skittered ahead a few unhappy steps, his mouth pulled down into an ungrateful frown.

An hour or so of further jostling and nagging, Trunks was found tucked neatly into his bed, his animated chattering having continued almost unfalteringly. Bulma sat, perched at his side, her hands ruffling through his lilac locks. A bemused grin curved at her mouth as she listened to him prattle on.

"So, we're in there, and otousan's all makin' fun of me because of the gravity, he thinks I can't stand it," the little boy boasted, his proud grin stretching his mouth wide. "So I do that thing that Goten and I have been practicing, y'know, where we turn all gold and—"

While her interest had been feigned initially, Bulma took the time to gasp in legitimate shock. "Trunks, you _didn't_—" She hissed between the fingers held over her lips. She could already imagine Vegeta's fury. But he had seemed so calm earlier…

"Yeah, I did! You should'a seen his face, mama," Trunks giggled. His eyes seemed to gleam under the faint glow of the night-light nearby. Bulma thought her heart might threaten to stop beating.

"Was he angry?" She whispered, almost afraid that Vegeta might hear. She leaned in subtly, curiosity piqued, and her hand pressed protectively across her son's middle. "What did he say?"

Trunks rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at her obvious concern, and his mouth slid into a smirk. "He couldn't believe it. So he asked me how I could do that, so I told him Goten and I'd both been able to do it for a while, and then … he asked me to _hit him_," his voice dipped into a stage-whisper; an attempt at a secret hush, but his enthusiasm was too much to contain.

Immediately, the color drained from her features. "He asked you to **what**?" She forgot her inside voice momentarily, and Trunks' pointed glare had her folding her lips into a thin line. Bulma could feel the blood rush to and clot in the middle of her chest. She should be thankful for dim lighting, lest she provoke Trunks' wonder. Her eyes raked over his face, his arms that were stretched to his sides, the rise and fall of his chest with every breath. The night shadowed whatever discolorations may or may not have been there, but for the most part, he seemed intact.

Foreign and rare, something had begun to creep into her bloodstream. Awash in it suddenly, Bulma couldn't fight the overpowering urge to smile knowingly at her boy. "Well … did you?" She willed Trunks to ignore the giddy lilt to her voice, prayed it go undetected. Gratefully, he appeared to overlook it, opting for a crooked and fulsome grin.

"I did, right here," the boy pressed a knuckle to the side of his face, enough to make his chubby cheek dimple. Bulma inhaled sharply. "I don't think he thought I could do it. I mean, I sure didn't!" However, her son's face slackened into defeat, and he pressed his palm to the center of his face. Bulma was tempted to question his lapse into silence, but it was brief, and she was relieved to find her son's face illuminated with that bountiful energy once more. "So anyway, because I hit him, he agreed to take me to the park, and now I can train with him and fight in the tournament!"

"Excuse me?"

The deadpan of his mother's inquiry rippled a shiver down Trunks' spine. "Eh?"

"Who in the hell said you're competing in that tournament?" Bulma pushed up from his bedside, her hands curving over her waist defiantly. "There's no way, Trunks. That's not a tournament for little kids."

"Goten-kun's doing it! So I have to do it, too!" Trunks sat upright now, and he ignored his mother's unmoving glare. "Otousan already said I have to beat Goten-kun, and I'm going to! C'mon, mom, please? Please, please?"

Her son's pleading served as a backdrop to Bulma's contemplation of this dilemma. She had never been particularly restricting with her son – not at all in the fashion that Chi Chi was. Looking down into his dewy and hopeful eyes, the woman began to feel her resolve give in.

Bulma slowly drew up a plaintive smile, and Trunks crowed loudly in rejoicing.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he rasped repeatedly as his mother's face drew nearer. Trunks quieted as she pecked him between lavender wisps of hair, and she pushed her hand flat and gentle over her child's eyes. He squirmed in annoyance. "Now, time for sleep, Trunks-chan! I'm done hearing about this tournament, and it's still a while away!"

"But—"

His protest was cut short by a purposely wet kiss to his cheek, and Trunks groaned in aggravation. Bulma snickered and dutifully wiped the cootie-tainted flesh clean with the back of her hand. "Good night," she stated with a hint of finality, and she turned from his bedside, disregarding his pout as she navigated the messy piles strewn about his bedroom.

_Click._

Before she had even shut her bedroom door completely, one massive hand was pushing it closed for her, forcing her back against the hard veneer. Bulma sucked in a breath as Vegeta drew closer, her mouth hanging open in awe. It was, however, fleeting. "What the hell are you doing, Vegeta?" She scolded him with flashing eyes and grit teeth, despite his pressing closer into her. "This is a little intrusive, don't you think?"

"You didn't tell me," he responded in a low timbre. "You knew and you didn't—"

"I tried," Bulma scoffed and turned her face from him, her aggravation evident. "But you didn't want to listen!" Scornful blue eyes swiveled upon him again, and he sneered at her in defiance. "Don't blame me for your pig-headedness! You know, you're always so—"

What he 'was' remained unseen or said, as Vegeta dove in to swallow it for himself. Bulma's instinctive moan was muffled effectively against his searing lips, while his tongue invited itself at once into her mouth. Thick, heavy hands found her hips and dug in deep, and Bulma rolled forward into him, his implicit appreciation of the situation becoming apparent. Her arms barely made it around his neck before he scooped her up by her bottom and spun, planting her firmly against the cool sheets and comforter.

As his knee moved into a prime location between her spread legs, Bulma started abruptly and half-sat upright, a hand braced against his chest to ward off his further assault of her swollen mouth. Vegeta furrowed his brow in confusion and irritation, though his gaze darkened imperceptibly as her hand slid around his jaw, framing him softly. She gave the lightest of turns to his face, willing him to present her with his profile. He complied silently, albeit a wary eye remained trained upon her.

There it was; barely visible, but the definite fading yellow of the bruise was unmistakable when scrutinizing his typically perfect visage.

He knew immediately what she was looking for, and he quickly jerked his head in her direction, ready to rally against her. Yet she was waiting, and Bulma intercepted Vegeta's mouth surreptitiously. She was thoroughly satisfied with his grunt of surprise, as that indefinable sensation from earlier leapt anew within her and blossomed. Bulma relished in the sudden thrill of feeling emboldened and smug even while pressed under his persistent and powerful hands, and she considered dazedly as he roamed her curves that perhaps he could feel it, too.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This was my longest chapter yet! It took me a while to churn it out, since I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I really liked playing with the idea of Bulma feeling some pride because of Trunks being able to hit Vegeta. There was just something profoundly amusing and interesting in that. And of course, Vegeta expresses his ... gratefulness or whatever for Trunks' being Super Saiyajin by trying to get some. Because he doesn't know how to say, "OH THANK GOD" or be relieved like a normal person. :P

I wish I could've written more from Vegeta's perspective, or perhaps even the actual visit to the park, but I don't feel as though I have a good enough grasp on Trunks/Vegeta's dynamic to really write something worthwhile. This chapter serves its purpose pretty good as a stepping stone toward the end of the fic, though.

This fic obviously takes place during the Great Saiyaman arc, particularly from the episode where Trunks is revealed to be a Super Saiyajin.


	19. End of the World

The humming grew louder and louder as she stomped her way through the undecorated hall. Around her, the walls seemed to vibrate with energy and with such force. Bulma thought for a moment her very bones were quivering as she neared the the end of the passage. She sighed heavily and approached with caution, the floors quaking under her feet as, for a fraction of a second, she hesitated.

An energetic holler sounded from behind the solid doors, and Bulma frowned. Her hanging fist rapped sharply and she shouted into the steel face of the portal, "Guys! Open up!" A beat, "NOW!"

When no response came, the woman sneered to herself and reached into the back pocket of her jeans, withdrawing a tiny silver key. "They don't want to do it the easy way, fine," she mumbled under her breath, inserting the jagged end into a small opening located beside the doors. A panel flipped open from the wall, revealing an interior set of squares and a mass of intertwined wires. Blithely, Bulma pressed her index finger into a vibrant green button and at once the humming silenced and her heart ceased its reverberating within her chest.

The reaction from inside was instantaneous. Vegeta's roar of frustration and Trunks' whines of equal agitation echoed within the otherwise silent chamber. As the doors parted to reveal the scene to Bulma, the sounds of their aggravation amplified, and she could not hide her victorious smirk.

"I don't know what's wrong with it, otousan!" Trunks' tiny grumbles sounded from the control panel where he was crouched, sweaty and red-faced, prodding at the dull colored knobs. "Maybe we should get okaasan—"

"She's already here," Vegeta growled thickly, his onyx eyes riveted on the woman across from him.

When her son whipped around, Bulma offered the boy a vague wave of greeting, though her insolent gaze never slipped from the Saiyan bristling mere steps apart from her. "Hi," she greeted, a dazzling smile stretching over her mouth as Vegeta's eyes narrowed inward. "Am I interrupting?"

"Mama, what's up with this crap? I thought otousan's machine couldn't break!" Trunks shouted unnecessarily, his face reddening further in irritation.

"Did you do this?" Vegeta queried in a tone just above a whisper, for Bulma's ears only.

A shoulder hitched, and the woman tilted her head ambiguously to the side. His deathly look should've withered her from the inside out – once upon a time, it probably would have – but now it simply fueled her amusement. "Training time is over, boys," she announced.

Riotous was Trunks' reaction, and he earned a sharp glare from his mother off his angry curse. "You want to try that again, Trunks?"

The boy faltered and shut his mouth. His head shook slowly, and his eyes dove toward the floor between his feet. "No, ma'am," he muttered to his shoes.

"Good," Bulma snapped, the man across from her forgotten momentarily. "Let's get going, then, ne? Shower, teeth brushed, tucked in," she rattled off and swung her arm dramatically toward the entryway, her finger gestured outward for direction. Nose held high in the air and her eyes firmly shut, Bulma waited patiently for her son's obedience. When it didn't come, however, she opened a single blue orb.

She didn't have time for a reprimand, as Vegeta had stepped up for her. "Your feet should be moving, boy."

"But otousan—" Trunks began to protest, large blue eyes shot in his father's direction.

"Don't look at your father," Bulma spat, and the boy twisted toward her. "You listen to _me._ You've got a big day tomorrow – both of you," she glanced pointedly toward Vegeta, who snorted and turned his profile upon her. "And everyone needs a good night's sleep."

A silent struggle resumed between the young child and his mother, but it fettered out in moments. With an overdramatic heave, Trunks lurched toward the doors, rounding widely about his mother. Bulma squinted after him before stepping ahead, and she lifted the face of her foot to boot his bottom just lightly enough. Squeaking loudly (Vegeta grimaced violently to himself), Trunks trotted faster toward the doors, sparing his parents a final, hurtful look before he sprinted into the hall with an unkind grumble.

Bulma huffed in her agitation, blowing the fringe out of her face. "Little smartass," she mumbled, and she shot the statue beside her an amused look. "He gets that from you, y'know. _I_ was an obedient child," she preened and was rewarded with the threat of a smirk from Vegeta.

It settled, however, and he turned completely toward her once more. "The boy's gone. Now, turn the machine back on, onna," he ordered easily, those strong arms crossing firmly over his broad chest.

Her eyebrows soared upward into her bangs, and the woman's hands characteristically found her hips. "You thought that was just for Trunks? It's bedtime for you, too, Vegeta," she half-laughed, despite his sudden advancement upon her. She smiled thinly at him, her eyes leveling with his. In her peripheral, she noticed his jaw tensing.

"You _will_ turn it back on, and don't think to speak to me like that again," he ground out and leaned in, all but looming over the unphased woman.

She should argue – she could. But Bulma certainly recognized that gleam beneath his eyes. Heavily, she exhaled, and she dropped her hands to her sides dejectedly. "Come on, Vegeta," she prodded, even as his glare seemed to close in on her. "It's not as though you're suddenly going to make great leaps in the handful of hours between now and the tournament." While she thought her logic was, of course, logical, it was apparent that Vegeta considered differently. She groaned and threw her hands up, a scowl tugging her mouth southward.

"Fine, do it your way, then," Bulma groused and moved toward the opening. "Just, please shower before crawling into bed, alright?" Her request was made with a flutter of hopeful lashes, as she tacked on over her shoulder, "Given that you should eventually come to bed, that is."

He did not respond. Vegeta had been in the process of spinning away from her, when he seemed suddenly caught by something against the wall. Bulma followed his gaze curiously to the thick tiles lining the surface, but she found nothing of interest. Returning her attentions upon him, she allowed herself a last once-over of the Saiyan, before beginning once again for the doors.

"Bulma."

Her name falling from his mouth halted her instantly. A hand fell upon the door frame and Bulma twisted at the waist to blink back at him cautiously. He still hadn't moved to face her; continued to be held captive by whatever lay beyond the wall. "Nani, Vegeta?" She asked of him – she wasn't sure why her voice had fallen into a hush.

The room had suddenly become dense and heavy under the weight of … what? Bulma couldn't place it, but it seemed to roll in waves from Vegeta's shoulders. Unconsciously, she shuffled closer toward him, her eyebrows creasing into a frown. "Vegeta, what is it—"

"Which one of us is better, Bulma?"

The breath in her throat caught, and Bulma found the words dying on her tongue. He wasn't looking at her, but she knew he was sensing her – she could see his hands trembling at his sides, in an effort to…

"I don't know what you mean," she replied, half-honest – half-dreading. Her gaze scoured his tightly knit features.

"Kakarotto," Vegeta clarified, still unmoving. "And you know what I mean."

Her mouth fell open soundlessly. Which was better? That translated into, which of them was stronger, she knew that. Bulma thought of those massive entities, the two men who'd shaped and molded her life more so than any pivotal forces could have or would have. She fondly imagined Son-kun and his eager grin, the one that always graced his timeless features just before battle, the one that she was a day away from seeing once again. Squinting, she tried to remember Baba's crystal ball and the first time she'd ever laid eyes upon the ugly, vile mug she'd eventually come to enjoy and look upon with comfort and—

And, truthfully, she hated this debate, this comparison; whether it was with their friends, or if it was on her own. Bulma despised the guilty nag that came with contesting their strength. In what seemed like a different life, she would have used it to her advantage in a quarrel or with her wants when concerning the man across form her. But she'd come to fight it later during the development of their relationship (for the lack of an appropriate term).

His growl of displeasure ripped her from her reverie. "Forget it. Why am I asking you? Like you'd know shit about--"

"Back then, it was you," she caught him by his arm as he began to brush past her. He froze at her chilled fingertips. When his eyes hit her French manicure, Bulma relinquished him and took a step back. "I mean, I remember it. We were all watching, at Muten Roshi's place," she saw his eyebrows dip, his mouth slant unpleasantly. "If Son-kun hadn't had Gohan-chan and Kurririn-chan and," she paused for a deprecating snort and a roll of her eyes as she added, "Yajirobe, you'd … you'd have won."

Vegeta's eyes widened indiscernibly, and Bulma ducked her head from him almost shamefully. "You'd have won," she mumbled again, the words hitting the back of her throat discordantly. "You probably would've killed us all. But you'd have won."

The silence rushed between them, filling the space and their ears.

His voice pierced the quiet first. "And then what happened?"

"Then … he let you go," Bulma sighed, the barest of grins ghosting over her lips. How stupid it had seemed, then. Where would she be now, without Son-kun's mercy? "For whatever reason, he let you go." Her eyes lifted and met his, and she found his stare far-off and glassy; he was remembering, too. _Questioning?_ "And then he got stronger. He—He wanted it more."

Vegeta seemed to stir to life again, his pupils dilating, his gaze tearing feverishly into her. She faltered briefly as her moved forward, toward her, and she tilted her chin up at him boldly.

"The hell do you mean, onna? No one has ever, _ever_," the syllables were guttural and brutal, and his irises glinted as he finished, "wanted it more than I."

She had heard this spiel. She'd seen him live it. And yet, the eons of sympathy died somewhere in her stomach. "Son-kun wanted it for _us_. Not for himself. He needed it."

"Pathetic," Vegeta breathed in her face, disbelieving and disgusted.

"It's not! That's why he was bet—stronger," she stumbled to correct herself, noticing his flashing teeth as he caught her slip. Bulma shivered through her spine. "But it was different, Vegeta! It always has been. You can't make the comparison—"

"How is it different?" He barked, a forceful hand grabbing and yanking at the crook of her arm, ignoring her yelp of surprise. "You tell me how it's different!"

Nose to nose with him now, she contemplated distantly on that certain terribleness that still perhaps laid dormant within him. Bulma had long forgotten the tight coil of fear and anxiety that accompanied his fierce countenance, the grip of his hand. She swallowed dumbly and studied him with large eyes, reflecting suddenly upon her little crevice on a green and unfamiliar planet and her infinite panic and worry that he'd seize her just like this – with just that dangerous look in his eye.

"I, I don't know," she stammered. "It just is!" He released her harshly, and Bulma stumbled back a few uneasy steps. "I mean, you did it all for you! Son-kun needed it for us. It holds different value, Vegeta," she dropped her voice low, and her hand rose to rub at the lingering ache where he had clutched her. "And then it just— it never happened," Bulma finished lamely and she watched his shoulders roll involuntarily with her words. "We never got to know. Something just kept getting in the way."

Catching his gaze, she wondered if he had understood her at all. His eyes wandered over the hand still at her arm, and Bulma thought she could see a flicker of an apology within them. Yet just as quickly, he had turned his face from her with a snarl. The rumble of indignation began to build in the pit of her belly and Bulma's eyes abruptly began to burn with her fury. With a resentful puff, she pivoted and strode through the wide door, abandoning the Saiyajin no Ouji there.

Later in the night, when she pretended to be curled up and fast asleep, Bulma felt him enter her bedroom quietly. Artfully, he slipped into the large bed beside her without bumping her recumbent figure. He laid with his back to her, and the scent of his cleanliness wafted around her. It seemed like an eternity before Bulma finally drudged up the courage and roll over onto her side to face the mass of naked flesh. His skin was hued a deep purple under the darkness that engulfed her room and tempted to touch though she was, she refrained and remained content to observe his gentle inhale-exhale movements.

One-on-one, she considered to herself, was it really even that debatable? Or was it just easy to carry around such preconceived notions, like Son-kun's virtuousness and his infallible success in any struggle? Or like Vegeta always happened to play second fiddle to the prodigy warrior, while his thirst for victory seemed infinitely unquenchable and far more important than anything and everything else?

"What do you think?" She asked softly of his slumbering figure, seeking an answer from out of the purple shadows etched between his muscles. They responded with emptiness, and Bulma bowed her head until her forehead touched his skin. She felt his muscles twitch there and relax. She was suddenly swallowed within a sticky and overwhelming instant of dread and terror; the kind that rose unwarranted, swiftly devouring everything in its wake. Her palms lay flat over his back, and her fingers splayed nervously.

Something ominous and threatening settled over her, and this bone-deep unease heralded memories of ignited skies and the promise of apocalypse.

From the depths of sleep, Vegeta crankily wondered, "What is it now?"

"It's—" Bulma breathed in shakily, then stopped. She shook her head against his back, willing a smile to spread across her mouth. "Nothing. I'm just excited for tomorrow."

He grunted and settled deeper into the pillow. Quelled and secure, Bulma pressed a kiss into his warm shoulder and sighed against him.

Hours into the evening, as she dozed contentedly behind him, Vegeta lay with eyes wide open. His vision strained upon the curtains of the window. Awaiting and begging for dawn.

Knowing that there would be nothing in the way, this time.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, so this was RIDICULOUSLY LONG compared to the other chapters, and I know I updated last night but when I suddenly got the idea for how I wanted the next chapter to go, I had to write it down. And then it just flowed from there. So here it is. I'm really pleased with this chapter and the emotions I got to play with between Bulma and Vegeta.

This chapter takes place the night before the Tenkaichi Budokai. Next chapter is the end, and I am sad, but still kind of glad I'm finishing this baby up. I can't believe I've written this much, even!


	20. To be

The spiraling white tendrils that rose from her cigarette comforted her in a way she couldn't explain. They seemed so free, so light, dancing in the night air from between her fingers. She sucked in from the stick, expelling a puff of grey-white. That substance tucked in between paper and tobacco slid into her blood stream, wrapping around her nicely, and she sighed softly.

Bulma's heart was finally slowing down for the first time that day. In retrospect, she was amazed that it hadn't burst right through her chest at any given point. But now, safely hidden within the confines of the massive Capsule Corporation headquarters, she felt as though time were drawing out and soothing her into a lull. She looked down at herself now, sneering with contempt at her overly bright red dress. Even though they had been home for hours, she hadn't yet found a moment to change out of it. It seemed too flashy for all that she had endured today. A mockery of the trials they had all been put through.

The humming of the house suddenly quieted, and Bulma stilled, her lips curled around the filter of her cigarette. It had been racing for the last three hours – the Saiyan she had wept over having thrown himself within the confines of his personal facility as soon as they had returned. She wanted to feel angry; instead, she felt chilled by his disregard and jealous of her invention and his goals.

Had nothing changed?

Grimacing, she flicked the nub of her remaining cigarette into the yard. The orange tip fettered out dully, and Bulma drew her legs up closer to her chest. Planting her chin between her knees, she exhaled unevenly again, her eyes misting over as she thought then of her son. Her smile thinned and she pressed her cheek against her bare knee. He fell asleep so fast, she remembered, she could see his little eyelashes falling almost instantaneously against his cheeks.

Her heart caught simultaneously with her breath at the sound of the glass doors sliding apart behind her. Bulma willed the threatening tears away as padding footsteps approached, and she glanced out of the corner of her eyes to spy a pair of bare feet. Blearily, she looked up, finding him towering above her, his countenance turned out upon the spacious gardens and his expression unreadable.

_Vegeta._ His name swam in her head within an ocean of emotions and thoughts that long ago would in no way have been reflected upon him.

Her fingers flexed around her knees. "You're back," she observed, breathless again as her heartbeat sped up. She realized how weak she felt now.

In the dark, with what spare light the interior of the home provided, she could barely see his gaze flit back down to size her up. "I've been inside the whole time," he countered after a moment, when he had settled his attention on some invisible speck beyond them.

"I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," he spoke over her in a tone that was implacable.

She looked down at her toes as he moved wordlessly, stationing himself on the ground beside her. He seemed guarded in his movement. Bulma couldn't recall when it was she had last seen him move so precisely around her. So careful. Part of her wanted to laugh at the irrationality of it, though she knew it would be inappropriate at this time.

Instead, she shifted uncomfortably, her bottom aching from being perched upon the earth for so long. "Trunks is asleep," she informed him in a quieter voice, one red toenail digging into the dirt. "It was so fast, like he hadn't slept in days."

"Hn."

Bulma gave another small sigh as her mind moved as though through molasses. Usually quick to come up with ways to entertain her companion, she seemed to fall short now. They seemed so uneven. What level they had been at just earlier that morning had washed away to unearth something rare and unusual. This tightness between them was becoming unbearable the longer the minutes dragged on.

Her buried toe twisted and reburied itself as she spoke up again, a little louder, "It's awfully quiet tonight, ne?"

Harrumphing, he drew her full attention and shot her a sidelong glance. "Until you opened your mouth, it was."

At once the flame lit low in her chest. Bulma saw his irises flash in a sliver of light and she gaped with a half-open mouth at him. "Ass!" She hissed, both in awe and amused with the readiness of his reply. "Why did you have to respond in such a way?"

"Why do you have to fill the space with your meaningless prattle?"

"Because something needs to be said, Vegeta!" Bulma gasped at her own sudden vehemence, noting the nervous widening of his eyes before he turned away from her. She almost felt guilty for taking the moment away from them. "It can't… just stay quiet." Her words died into a murmur as she looked to his feet, saw his toes curled into the dirt. Just like hers.

"Why not?" Vegeta wondered after a beat, and Bulma marveled at how exhausted he sounded.

Her shoulders shrugged as she leaned further over her knees. She folded her arms across them to cushion her chest. "Because it's not us to do that."

"It's me," he responded almost automatically.

"Well, it _was_ you," Bulma argued with distinct emphasis and met his gaze head on. She inclined her head to the minimal distance between them. "But it's not us now. When have we ever been quiet, Vegeta?" It was her weak attempt at a joke, to lighten the mood. She had hoped he would bite, but he did not. He merely stared, as though analyzing her from the inside out.

She was not sure what compelled her, but she couldn't stop herself. Curiosity always got the best of her. "Is that what you really think?" His eyebrow twitched, and his gaze flickered like he might look away – but she held on. _This is important_, she tried to tell him without the words_. Stay with me._ "Is that why … I mean, is that why you did it?"

He was struggling under the wonder of her eyes; that hopeful blue pulling him in and she could see him fighting against his natural state. She pleaded silently that he stay connected to her, and she didn't really know why, but she thought she'd be completely lost if he turned away now. Especially after she cried for him at the top of the world.

"No," came his hoarse response. "It's more than that, Bulma."

_Progress_, she thought. Bulma was proud he held her stare for so long. She relented and let go of his gaze, blinking down instead to his hands that were loose between his knees. "Is it because of Goku?"

His initial silence answered her. _Mostly_. "It's what—" Vegeta began, and Bulma looked to see him quickly glance upward into space. She could see him searching between stars – she'd seen him do that before, seeking out his long-lost home world. She pitied him in that moment, as he sought out the debris that lay on the outer reaches of the universe. "It's what I wanted."

Her blood went cold. Suddenly, Bulma wished she had brought her cigarettes outside. _What an awkward time for a craving_, she reflected numbly, eyeing his stern features. "What you wanted," she softly echoed.

"I thought," he supplied with a sideways look. He was stepping outside of himself; she could clearly see that now, as he grit his teeth behind tight lips. "It wasn't what I had entertained it to be." As though in defeat, Vegeta tilted his head downward, his eyes boring into the soil beneath their feet. "It hasn't been … for a long time."

Something began to unfurl in her belly, and Bulma felt the promise of a smile edge at the corners of her lips. "Oh, no?" She didn't mean to sound coy or teasing, but the pleasure under her words was inimitable.

Vegeta looked aside to her, his scowl lessening at once. Bulma touched her cheek self-consciously, her smile wavering as his gaze seemed to linger and search her visage as he had the stars. "What … what was it, then?"

Those dark eyes were roving somewhere just beneath her eyes. "Why must you have a question for everything?" He asked of her quietly. She thought it might be her mouth at which he was staring so intently.

"I'm just naturally curious," Bulma defended herself weakly and felt her cheeks growing hot under his scrutiny. "I can't help it."

"Hm," Vegeta mused, and she could see him slyly nearing her face. He seemed amused by something, his downturned lips twitching northward minutely.

In a way she hadn't felt in ages, the air began to drift out of the space between them, rendering Bulma lightheaded. "What are you looking at, anyway?" She asked him breathily, already sure of his answer as it coiled warmly in her stomach and nestled there.

Vegeta hesitated and Bulma felt that warmth threatening to flutter away as he inspected her glowing cheeks, her hazy eyes. Abruptly he closed the gap between them, his mouth hovering seconds above hers. With a seriousness she had not anticipated, he met her inquiring gaze and told her on a single, hot breath, "What I want."

Searing with need, his lips crashed upon her. The force was almost bruising, as his hands came up to tug at her upper arms and draw her closer into him. Bulma gasped upon his urgency and his honesty, instinctively moving her mouth in time with his and opening up to allow him in. When he finally pulled apart from her, there was a heartbeat in time, and her mind kicked into life once again. With a harsh and unexpected sob, she launched herself forward, her arms locking firmly around his neck.

That aching inside broke apart and fell away as she hugged him close to her, her hands winding tightly amid his thick hair. She could feel him stiffen in her arms, and she tightened her embrace. "Tell me you mean that," Bulma pleaded jaggedly against his neck, feeling his arms hover just around her waist. "You have to tell me you mean that."

"I said it," he permitted and dipped his nose meaningfully against the crown of her head.

"Not the same," she drew back slightly and saw his expression darken just so. She imagined how she must look, frazzled and desperate, eyes red and cheeks tear-stained. But she couldn't care at that moment – because she wasn't Chi Chi and he certainly wasn't Goku. "You have to promise me you won't do this again, Vegeta," Bulma told him, the barest shell of hope protecting her words.

He vacillated, his hands having long since fallen from her sides. Gradually, Bulma unwound herself from him, leaning back to look upon him with what determination she could muster.

After moment's pause, his nostrils flared. "I do not make promises, Bulma," he told her resolutely, and she felt a vague stream of horror course through her. "You should know better than to ask so much." The sick disappointment ran down into her stomach and settled there like lead, her head bowing shamefully under his words. So she was caught off guard when his thumb and forefinger curled around her chin and lifted her face to him.

Bulma looked – _really_ looked – at this man. The only man who had ever absolutely defined her in any way. By no means had she ever been any man's woman; she was not something to be obtained and had, a mantra of sorts she'd told herself when she'd get desperate or find herself longing. But were there any such man to lay this claim, unquestionably it was him. What she felt as she stared up at him now was painful and certain. Not really love, but it had that same kind of necessity and exigency underneath it.

He was important, vastly important to her. And as she delved deeper into his eyes, those expressive onyx orbs, past his pupils and into whatever variant of a soul he may have possessed, she found it there, too. Similar feelings and a similar need. He let her see it in that instant, and her heart began to pump and swell.

"Your word," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. Vegeta swallowed, she could see his throat bob in her peripheral. "That's what this is."

She saw him war with his pride for mere seconds, before his gaze softened and shifted into something not wholly recognizable. In the moment it took her to unravel it, he had lowered his forehead enough to touch hers, and he exhaled slowly. She blushed, unaccustomed to this conscious movement of affection from him.

"You must make everything difficult and uncomfortable," he chided her in what could only be considered exasperation.

At once, it occured to her how ridiculous all of this was. His literalness, his proximity, the years and planets spanned between them. How of all the things they really were not, the dramatic arch of this moment was the least of them. Giggles errupted from deep within her and she immediately became consumed by her laughter. He settled his eyes down upon her to find her pink-faced and beaming, and confusion wrinkled his face. "What is your problem, now?"

"There's no problem," she assured between hiccups of laughter, her face relinquished by him. Quickly, she ducked her head to control herself. "Gomen nasai!"

"You are the most absurd creature," Vegeta chastised her with pointed agitation and rose to his feet, disdainful and displeased with the turn of their conversation. "This entire thing is completely ludicrous."

Bulma scrambled to her feet as he moved from her side, stumbling up after him as he began toward the home again. Whatever poignant moment they had been edging upon was abandoned, as a certain familiarity burst anew within her chest. "Matte, Vegeta! You were going to say something else, weren't you?"

He snorted derisively and swiftly opened the sliding doors. Undeterred by her haste to follow him, he continued through the kitchen and toward the staircase, barking over his shoulder, "Absolutely not! What else would I have to say to you?"

"Like you're sorry?" Bulma called after him as he picked up speed. She matched his gait, hot on his heels. "Like you swear you'd never hurt me or Trunks like that again? Like you love—"

"Bulma!" Vegeta growled in warning as he bounded up the staircase, seeking safe haven from the enthusiastic sprite marching purposefully behind him. He halted unexpectedly on the landing and whirled upon her, brandishing a threatening finger into her face. "Would you shut up already? You are insufferably loud and annoying!"

"Don't be so mean, Vegeta! It's not like you!" She playfully batted his finger away and puckered her lips in a kiss to the air between them. "Remember, now I know what you _really_ want!"

Vegeta groaned upon her antics and exaggerations. Before her mouth could open tauntingly once more, his warm hand wrapped deftly about her wrist. Pointedly, he glared upon her – a threat to hush her - and she abided by tightly folding her lips together. Assured of her silence, he set immediately to tugging her along with his ardent strides down the hall, both unaware and uncaring of the dirty footprints left behind them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, I swear to god I didn't die, nor did I forget this thing. Term is coming to an end and I have been SWAMPED with essays and projects and academic decisions! Not to mention I suffered SERIOUS writer's block on this chapter. There were so many different ways I wanted to go with this chapter, and every avenue I tested didn't work. But then I sat down and churned this guy out and ... well, I'm really happy with this!

I think this chapter is the best way I could've concluded this fic. Bulma and Vegeta, finally at that point of total comfortability where they can literally just be side-by-side, rehashing where their relationship is at. Obviously, this takes place the same day as the Buu/Majin Vegeta events.

I really, really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, especially after it took me so long to get it to you! I want to thank all of you for reading and sticking with this fic. I hope I haven't lost some of you guys during the waiting period for this chapter! ^^;;


End file.
